Dark Horse

TAMI HOAG DARK HORSE

BANTAM BOOKS DARK HORSE A Bantam Book / September 2002 All rights reserved. Copyright © 2002 by Indelible Ink, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books. Visit our website at http://www.bantamdell.com/ Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hoag, Tami. Dark horse / Tami Hoag. p. cm. eISBN 0-553-89706-3 1. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 2. Teenage girls—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. I. Title. PS3558.O333 D37 2002b 813'.54—dc21 2002074583 Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

v1.0 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS As always, I have several people to thank for sharing with me their professional expertise as I wrote this story. Lieutenant Ed Serafin, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, Robbery/Homicide division. Robert Crais. Eileen Dreyer. Jessie Steiner. Mary Phelps. And most of all, Betsy Steiner, true friend and partner in international intrigue. This book was inspired by the adventures of Tess and Mati. May there be many more, and may they live to tell the tales. AUTHOR’S NOTE Welcome to my other world. In my life away from my desk, I am a competitive equestrian. In fact, I’ve been a rider longer than I’ve been a writer. Over the years horses have been my joy, refuge, therapy, salvation, and comfort. I’ve ridden in nearly every equestrian discipline, from barrel racing to jumping. When I was thirteen and my girlfriends were baby-sitting to earn spending money, my father was bringing home young horses for me to break to saddle. Several years ago I settled on the equestrian sport of dressage as my out-of-office passion. Dressage is all about control and precision and the mastery of imperceptible cues between rider and horse. The ultimate result is something like equine ballet, which appears elegant and effortless but requires the same physical and mental fitness as power yoga. I began competing in dressage in 1999. Being me, I didn’t ease into the sport. I have one gear in everything I do: full-on. I bought a wonderful—if difficult—horse named D’Artagnon from Olympic rider Guenter Seidel, and within a year’s time went from my first dressage competition to being a nationally ranked amateur rider in the U.S. Dressage Federation. At the end of my first season, my coach, trainer, mentor, and great friend, Betsy Steiner (a world-class rider herself), encouraged me to bring D’Artagnon along with several other horses from her stable to Florida for the winter season. Every year top equestrians from the East Coast, Midwest, Canada, and Europe migrate to Welllington in Palm Beach County to spend three months in constant training and competition in some of the most prestigious dressage and jumper shows in the country. Thousands of horses and hundreds of riders converge to create a fascinating world, a world driven by the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and lots of money. A world populated by the ultrarich and the very poor; celebrities, royalty, and ordinary people who scrimp and save year-round in order to “do the season”; philanthropists, dilettantes, professionals, amateurs, con men, and criminals. People who love horses, and people who love to exploit people who love horses. A world with a glamorous surface and a tough underbelly. Yin and yang. Positive and negative. By the end of that first season in Florida, my imagination was running wild with story ideas that would blend my two worlds. The result is Dark Horse, a classic private-eye novel set against the backdrop of international show jumping. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the dark side of my other world. If you come away from this book thinking the horse business is all bad, I’ll tell you that’s not so. Some of the finest, kindest, most generous people I have ever known have been in the horse business. But on the flip side of that coin, some of the most vile, vicious, loathsome people I have ever known have been in

the horse business. The horse world can be a world of extremes and amazing adventures. I’ve had horses drugged, horses stolen. I’ve been stranded in a foreign country with a sociopathic horse dealer who canceled my transportation home. I’ve masqueraded as a groom and flown in the belly of a cargo plane with a horse bent on killing me. But these adventures don’t happen every day. Every day I go to the stables and find friendship and partnership and calm within my soul. My own horses appear in this book, in Sean Avadon’s stable. But, in answer to the inevitable question, Elena is not me (if my life were so exciting, when would I write a book?). However, I do agree with her when she says, “On the back of a horse I felt whole, complete, connected to that vital place in the center of me . . . and the chaos within me found balance.” ACT ONE SCENE ONE FADE IN: EXTERIOR: PALM BEACH EQUESTRIAN CENTER—SUNSET Flat, open fields of scrub stretching to the west. A dirt road running north onto equestrian center property and south toward small horse farms some distance away. No one around. The fields are empty. No people, no horses. Sunday night: everyone has gone home. Erin stands at the back gate. She’s waiting for someone. She’s nervous. She thinks she’s here for a secret purpose. She thinks her life will change tonight. It will. She looks at her watch. Impatient. Afraid he won’t show. She’s not aware of the camera filming her. She thinks she’s alone. She’s thinking: maybe he won’t come, maybe she’s wrong about him. A rusted white van approaches from the south. She watches it come toward her. She looks annoyed. No one uses this back road this time of day. The gate to the show grounds has already been chained shut for the night. The van stops. A masked assailant leaps out. ERIN No! She starts to run toward the gate. He catches her arm from behind and spins her around. She kicks him. He backhands her across the face, knocking her sideways. She wrenches free of his grasp as she stumbles, and she tries to run again but can’t get her feet under her. The assailant knocks her down from behind, coming down on top of her, his knee in her back. He pulls a hypodermic needle from the pocket of his jacket and rams the needle into her arm. She makes a sound of pain and starts to cry. He pulls her to her feet and shoves her into the van. He slams the door shut, gets in the van, the van turns around and drives away. Life changes in a heartbeat.

FADE OUT ACT TWO SCENE ONE FADE IN: INTERIOR: OLD TRAILER HOUSE Night. A single lightbulb in a lamp with no shade. No curtains at the filthy window. A rusty old iron bed frame. Stained mattress with no sheets. Erin sits on the bed, huddled against the headboard, frightened, naked. She is chained to the bed by one wrist. Her hair is a mess. Mascara rings her eyes. Her lower lip is split and bloody. She is very aware of the camera and the director of the scene. She tries to cover as much of herself as she can. She is crying softly, trying to hide her face. DIRECTOR Look at the camera, bitch. Say your line. She shakes her head, still hiding. DIRECTOR Say it! You want me to make you? She shakes her head and looks at the camera. ERIN Help me. FADE OUT ACT TWO SCENE TWO FADE IN: EXTERIOR: THE HORSE PARK AT EQUESTRIAN ESTATES—SUNSET Wide open spaces on three sides. Trees and a canal at the back of the property. A paved road curves past the front. No one in sight, but the cops are there, hidden. A black car approaches and parks at the gate. Bruce Seabright gets out of the car and looks around. He looks pissed off and nervous. He thinks it’s a trap. He’s right.

He opens the trunk and takes out two large blue duffel bags. He heaves the bags over the gate, then climbs over, picks the bags up, and looks around again. He’s looking for a sign, for a person. Maybe he’ s even looking for Erin, though he would be just as happy if he never saw her again. He starts walking up the drive toward the building, reluctantly. He has the expression of a man who will wet his pants at the first sudden loud noise. Halfway to the building he stops and stands and waits. Slowly he turns around in a circle. He wonders what will happen next. He sets the bags down and checks his watch. 6:05 P.M. Darkness is closing in. The security light comes on with a loud humming sound. The voice, the same mechanically altered voice from the phone calls, comes over the loudspeakers. THE VOICE Leave the bags on the ground. BRUCE Where’s the girl? THE VOICE Leave the bags on the ground. BRUCE I want to see Erin! THE VOICE In the box. Ring one. In the box. Ring one. BRUCE What box? Which ring? He is agitated, doesn’t know which way to turn. He doesn’t like not having control. He doesn’t want to leave the money. He looks at the two rings nearest the building and chooses the one to his right. He takes the bags with him and goes to stand at the corner of the ring. BRUCE What box? I don’t see any box! He stands there, impatient. It’s getting darker by the second. He stares for a moment at the judge’s booth—a small wooden shelter—at the end of the ring, then goes toward it. BRUCE Erin? Erin!

He circles the booth cautiously. Someone might jump out and shoot him or stab him. Erin’s body might fall out onto the ground. Nothing happens. He inches toward the door, pulls it open, jumps back. Nothing happens. BRUCE Erin? Are you in there? No answer. Slowly, he sets the bags on the ground and inches toward the booth again, eventually stepping inside. There is no one in the booth. A videotape cassette has been left on the floor. Written in black block letters on a white label on the tape: PUNISHMENT. THE VOICE You broke the rules. The girl has paid the price. Cops come out of the woodwork. Several charge up the stairs of the building. They pry the lock off the door, kick the door in, burst into the room shouting with guns drawn. The beams of their flashlights bob and sweep around the room. There is no one there. As they approach the console of audio equipment situated under the bank of windows that allow full view of the grounds, they spot the simple timer that turned the machines on at precisely 6:05 P.M. The tape is still playing. THE VOICE You broke the rules. The girl has paid the price. You broke the rules. The girl has paid the price. The voice echoes across the emptiness of the night. FADE OUT ACT THREE SCENE ONE FADE IN: EXTERIOR: LATE NIGHT—EDGE OF SHOPPING CENTER PARKING LOT The parking lot is mostly empty. A few cars in the rows near the supermarket, which is open twenty-four hours. The rest of the businesses are dark. The girl runs toward the store. Her legs are weak and tired. She’s crying. Her hair is a tangled mess. Her

face is bruised. Her arms are striped with red welts. She spots a pair of Palm Beach County cruisers parked together and veers toward them. She tries to cry out for help, but her throat is dry and parched, and hardly any sound comes out. A few feet from the car, she stumbles and falls on her hands and knees. GIRL Help. Help me. Please. She knows the deputy can’t hear her whispered pleas. She is only a few yards from the car, but she doesn’t have the strength to get up. She lies sobbing on the concrete. The deputy spots her and gets out of his car. DEPUTY Miss? Miss? Are you all right? The girl looks up at him, sobbing in relief. The deputy kneels down beside her. He calls to the other deputy. DEPUTY Reeger! Call for an ambulance! (Then, to the girl) Miss? Can you talk to me? Can you tell me your name? GIRL Erin. Erin Seabright. FADE OUT 1 Life can change in a heartbeat. I’ve always known that. I’ve lived the truth of that statement literally from the day I was born. I sometimes see those moments coming, sense them, anticipate them, as if they have an aura that precedes their arrival. I see one coming now. Adrenaline runs through my bloodstream like rocket fuel. My heart pounds like a piston. I’m ready to launch. I’ve been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that’s not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I’ve got the Golam brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. Their guard will be down. I’ve worked this case three months. I know what I’m doing. I know that I’m right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap when the news vans arrive and to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff. He stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn’t know his ass. He doesn’t even know the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching

the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam’s four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they’ll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road. Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now, while their guard is down . . . Screw Sikes. I’m going in before these twitches freak. It’s my case. I know what I’m doing. I key my radio. “This is stupid. They’re going to break for the truck. I’m going in.” “Goddammit, Estes—” Sikes. I click the radio off and drop it into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It’s my case. It’s my bust. I know what I’m doing. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers’ customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. “Hey, Billy, it’s Elle. I need some.” Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking—crystal meth. He’s breathing hard. He’s got a gun in his hand. Shit. The front door explodes inward. One of the girls screams. Buddy Golam shouts: “Cops!” Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath. And then I opened my eyes and felt sick at the knowledge that I was still alive. This was the way I had greeted every day for the past two years. I had relived that memory so many times, it was like replaying a movie over and over and over. No part of it changed, not a word, not an image. I wouldn’t allow it. I lay in the bed and thought about slitting my wrists. Not in an abstract way. Specifically. I looked at my wrists in the soft lamplight—delicate, as fine-boned as the wing of a bird, skin as thin as tissue, blue-lined with veins—and thought about how I would do it. I looked at those thin blue lines and thought of them as lines of demarcation. Guidelines. Cut here. I pictured the needle-nose point of a boning knife. The lamplight would catch on the blade. Blood would rise to the surface in its wake as the blade skated along the vein. Red. My favorite color. The image didn’t frighten me. That truth frightened me most of all. I looked at the clock: 4:38 A.M. I’d had my usual fitful four and a half hours of sleep. Trying for more was an exercise in futility. Trembling, I forced my legs over the edge of the bed and got up, pulling a deep blue chenille throw around my shoulders. The fabric was soft, luxurious, warm. I made special note of the sensations. You’re

always more intensely alive the closer you come to looking death in the face. I wondered if Hector Ramirez had realized that the split second before he died. I wondered that every day. I dropped the throw and went into the bathroom. “Good morning, Elena. You look like shit.” Too thin. Hair a wild black tangle. Eyes too large, too dark, as if there was nothing within to shine outward. The crux of my problem: lack of substance. There was—is—a vague asymmetry to my face, like a porcelain vase that has been broken, then painstakingly restored. The same vase it was before, yet not the same. The same face I was born with, yet not the same. Slightly skewed and strangely expressionless. I was beautiful once. I reached for a comb on the counter, knocked it to the floor, grabbed a brush instead. Start at the bottom, work upward. Like combing a horse’s tail. Work the knots out gently. But I had already tired of looking at myself. Anger and resentment bubbled up through me, and I tore the brush through my hair, shoving the snarls together and tangling the brush in the midst of the mess. I tried maybe forty-five seconds to extricate the thing, yanking at the brush, tearing at the hair above the snarl, not caring that I was pulling hair out of my head by the roots. I swore aloud, swatted at my image in the mirror, swept the tumbler and soap dish off the counter in a tantrum, and they smashed on the tile floor. Then I jerked open a drawer in the vanity and pulled out a scissors. Furious, shaking, breathing hard, I cut the brush free. It dropped to the floor with a mass of black hair wrapped around it. The pressure in my chest eased. Numbness trickled down through me like rain. Calm. Without emotion, I proceeded to hack away at the rest of my mane, cutting it boy-short in ten minutes. The result was ragged with a finger-in-the-light-socket quality. Still, I’d seen worse in Vogue. I swept up the mess—the discarded hair, the broken glass—tossed it in the trash, and walked out of the room. I’d worn my hair long all my life.

T he morning was cool, shrouded in a thick, ground-hugging fog, the air ripe with the damp scents of south Florida: green plants and the murky canal that ran behind the property; mud and manure and horses. I stood on the patio of the little guest house I lived in and breathed deeply. I had come to this farm a refugee. Jobless, homeless, a pariah in my chosen profession. Unwanted, unloved, abandoned. All of it deserved. I had been off the job two years, most of that time spent in and out of hospitals as doctors repaired the damage done to my body that day at the Golam brothers’ trailer. Piecing together shattered bone, patching torn flesh, putting the left side of my face together like a three-dimensional puzzle. They had been less successful with my psyche. Needing something to do until I could make up my mind about reaching for that boning knife, I had answered an ad in Sidelines, a locally based, biweekly magazine for the horse industry: GROOM WANTED

. Life is strange. I don’t want to believe anything is preordained. To believe that, one would have to accept the existence of a viciously cruel higher power in order to explain things like child abuse and rapists and AIDS and good men being shot dead in the line of duty. But the occasional twist of fate always makes me wonder. The phone number in the ad belonged to Sean Avadon. I’d known Sean a hundred years ago in my riding days, when I was a spoiled, sulky, Palm Beach teenager and he was a spoiled, outrageous twenty-something spending his trust fund on horses and mad flings with pretty young men from Sweden and Germany. We had been friends, Sean always telling me I needed him to be my surrogate sense of humor and fashion. Our families lived a couple of mansions down from one another on the Lake Worth side of the narrow island, Sean’s father a real estate magnate, mine an attorney to the wealthiest crooks in south Florida. The slumlord and the shyster, each of them sire to ungrateful offspring. Sean and I had bonded in parental disdain and our love for horses. Wild child times two. All that had seemed so long ago as to be a dream I could barely remember. So much had happened since. I had left Palm Beach, left that world. I had metaphorically lived and died in another life. Then I answered that ad: GROOM WANTED. I didn’t get the job. As bad a shape as I was in, even I could see the pity in his eyes when we met for drinks at The Players. I was a dark shadow of the girl Sean had known twenty years past, so pathetic I didn’t have the pride to fake mental health. I guess that might have been rock bottom. I might have gone home that night to the apartment I was renting and tried to find that boning knife. Instead, Sean took me in like a stray cat—a recurring theme in my life. He put me in his guest house and asked that I work a couple of his horses for the winter season. He claimed he needed the help. His ex-trainer/ex-lover had run off to Holland with his groom and left him in the lurch. He made it sound like he was giving me a job. What he was giving me was a stay of execution. Three months had passed. I was still fantasizing about suicide, and every evening I took a bottle of Vicodin out of my nightstand, emptied out the pills, and looked at them and counted them and thought how one pill would ease the physical pain that had been with me every day since “the incident,” as my attorney called it. (How sterile and neat that sounded. A small segment of unpleasantness that could be snipped from the fabric of life and isolated. How in contrast to my memories.) One pill could ease the pain. Thirty could end it. I had a stockpile of three hundred and sixty pills. Every evening I looked at those pills, then put them back in the bottle and put the bottle away. I had never taken one. My evening ritual. My daily ritual for the past three months was the routine of Sean’s barn and time spent with his horses. I found both rituals comforting, but for very different reasons. The pills were a connection to death, and every night I didn’t take them was a victory. The horses were a connection to life, and every hour spent with them was a reprieve. Early on in my life I came to the conclusion that my spirituality was something uniquely and privately my own, something I could find only deep within a small quiet space in the very center of my being. Some people find that place through meditation or yoga or prayer. I find that place within me when I am on a horse. My Zen religion: the equestrian art of dressage. Dressage is a discipline born on the battlefield in ancient times. Warhorses were trained in precision

movements to aid their masters in battle, not only to evade enemies, but to attack them. Over the centuries the training went from the battlefield to the showring, and dressage evolved into something like equine ballet. To the untrained eye it appears graceful and elegant and effortless. A skilled rider seems to be so quiet, so motionless as to virtually blend into the background. In reality, the sport is physically and mentally demanding on both horse and rider. Complex and complicated. The rider must be attuned to the horse’s every footfall, to the balance of every inch of the horse’s body. The slightest shift of the rider’s weight, the smallest movement of a hand, the lightest tensing of a calf muscle will affect the quality of the performance. Focus must be absolute. Everything else becomes insignificant. Riding was my refuge as a teenager, when I felt I had little control over any other aspect of my life. It was my stress release when I had a career. It had become my salvation when I had nothing else. On the back of a horse I felt whole, complete, connected to that vital place in the very center of me that had otherwise closed itself off, and the chaos within me found balance. D’Artagnon and I moved across the sand arena through the last wisps of the morning ground fog, the horse’s muscles bulging and rolling, his hooves striking the ground in perfect metronome rhythm. I massaged the left rein, sat into his back, tightened my calves around him. The energy moved from his hindquarters, over his back; his neck rounded and his knees came up into the stylized, slow-motion trot called passage. He seemed almost to float beneath me, to bounce like a huge, soft ball. I felt he might take wing if only I knew the one secret word to whisper to him. We halted in the center of the ring at the place known as X. In that moment I felt joy and peace. I dropped the reins on his neck and patted him. He lowered his head and started to walk forward, then stopped and came to attention. A girl sat on the white board fence that ran along the road. She watched me with a sense of expectation about her. Even though I hadn’t noticed her, I could tell she’d been there, waiting. I judged her to be about twelve. Her hair was long and brown, perfectly straight, and neatly held back from her face with a barrette on each side. She wore little round black-rimmed glasses that made her look very serious. I rode toward her with a vague feeling of apprehension that made no sense at the time. “Can I help you?” I asked. D’Ar blew through his nostrils at her, ready to bolt and save us from the intruder. I should have let him. “I’m here to see Ms. Estes,” she said properly, as if she’d come on business. “Elena Estes?” “Yes.” “And you are . . . ?” “Molly Seabright.” “Well, Molly Seabright, Ms. Estes isn’t here at the moment.” “You’re Ms. Estes,” she declared. “I recognize your horse. His name is D’Artagnon, like in the Three Musketeers.” She narrowed her eyes. “You cut your hair.” Disapproval. “Do I know you?”

“No.” “Then how do you know me?” I asked, the apprehension rising up like bile through my chest to the base of my throat. Maybe she was a relative of Hector Ramirez, come to tell me she hated me. Maybe she’d been sent as a decoy by an older relative who would now pop out of nowhere to shoot me or scream at me or throw acid in my face. “From Sidelines,” she said. I felt like I’d walked into the middle of a play. Molly Seabright took pity on me and carefully climbed down from the fence. She was slightly built and dressed neatly in sensible dark slacks and a little blue T-shirt with a small daisy chain embroidered around the throat. She came up along D’Artagnon’s shoulder and carefully held the magazine out to me, folded open to an interior page. The photograph was in color. Me on D’Ar, riding through thin ribbons of early-morning fog. The sunlight made his coat shine as bright as a new penny. My hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail. I had no memory of being photographed. I had certainly never been interviewed, though the writer seemed to know things about me I didn’t know myself. The caption read: Private investigator Elena Estes enjoys an early-morning ride on D’Artagnon at Sean Avadon’s Avadonis Farm in Palm Beach Point Estates. “I’ve come to hire you,” Molly Seabright said. I turned toward the barn and called for Irina, the stunning Russian girl who had beat me out for the groom ’s job. She came out, frowning and sulky. I stepped down off D’Artagnon and asked her to please take him back to the barn. She took his reins, and sighed and pouted and slouched away like a sullen runway model. I ran a gloved hand back through my hair, startled to come to the end of it so quickly. A fist of tension began to quiver in my stomach. “My sister is missing,” Molly Seabright said. “I’ve come to hire you to find her.” “I’m sorry. I’m not a private investigator. This is some kind of mistake.” “Why does the magazine say that you are?” she asked, looking stern and disapproving again. She didn’t trust me. I’d already lied to her once. “I don’t know.” “I have money,” she said defensively. “Just because I’m twelve doesn’t mean I can’t hire you.” “You can’t hire me because I’m not a private investigator.” “Then what are you?” she demanded. A broken-down, busted-out, pathetic ex–sheriff’s detective. I’d thumbed my nose at the life I’d been raised in, been ostracized from the life I’d chosen. What did that make me? “Nothing,” I said, handing the magazine back to her. She didn’t take it. I walked away to an ornate park bench that sat along the end of the arena and took a long drink from the bottle of water I’d left there.

“I have a hundred dollars with me,” the girl said. “For a deposit. I expect you have a daily fee and that you probably charge expenses. I’m sure we can work something out.” Sean emerged from the end of the stable, squinting into the distance, showing his profile. He stood with one booted leg cocked and pulled a pair of deerskin gloves from the waist of his brown breeches. Handsome and fit. A perfect ad for Ralph Lauren. I headed across the arena, anger boiling now in my stomach. Anger, and underlying it a building sense of panic. “What the fuck is this?” I shouted, smacking him in the chest with the magazine. He took a step back, looking offended. “It might be Sidelines, but I can’t read with my nipples, so I can’ t say for certain. Jesus Christ, El. What did you do to your hair?” I hit him again, harder, wanting to hurt him. He grabbed the magazine away from me, took another quick step out of range, and turned to the cover. “Betsy Steiner’s stallion, Hilltop Giotto. Have you seen him? He’s to die for.” “You told a reporter I’m a private investigator.” “They asked me who you were. I had to tell them something.” “No, you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to tell them anything.” “It’s only Sidelines. For Christ’s sake.” “It’s my name in a goddam magazine read by thousands of people. Thousands of people now know where to find me. Why don’t you just paint a big target on my chest?” He frowned. “Only dressage people read the dressage section. And then only to see if their own names are in the show results.” “Thousands of people now think I’m a private investigator.” “What was I supposed to tell them? The truth?” Said as if that were the most distasteful option. Then I realized it probably was. “How about ‘no comment’?” “That’s not very interesting.” I pointed at Molly Seabright. “That little girl has come here to hire me. She thinks I can help her find her sister.” “Maybe you can.” I refused to state the obvious: that I couldn’t even help myself. Sean lifted a shoulder with lazy indifference and handed the magazine back to me. “What else have you got to do with your time?” Irina emerged from the barn, leading Oliver—tall, elegant, and beautiful, the equine version of Sean. Sean dismissed me and went to his teak mounting block.

Molly Seabright was sitting on the park bench with her hands folded in her lap. I turned and walked to the barn, hoping she would just go away. D’Artagnon’s bridle hung from the ceiling on a four-pronged hook near an antique mahogany cabinet full of leather-cleaning supplies. I chose a small damp sponge from the work table, rubbed it over a bar of glycerine soap, and began to clean the bridle, trying to narrow the focus of my mind on the small motor skills involved in the task. “You’re very rude.” I could see her from the corner of my eye: standing as tall as she could—five-feet-nothing—her mouth a tight little knot. “Yes, I am. That’s part of the joy of being me: I don’t care.” “You’re not going to help me.” “I can’t. I’m not what you need. If your sister is missing, your parents should go to the cops.” “I went to the Sheriff’s Office. They wouldn’t help me either.” “You went? What about your parents? They don’t care your sister is missing?” For the first time Molly Seabright seemed to hesitate. “It’s complicated.” “What’s complicated about it? She’s either missing or she’s not.” “Erin doesn’t live with us.” “How old is she?” “Eighteen. She doesn’t get along with our parents.” “There’s something new.” “It’s not like she’s bad or anything,” Molly said defensively. “She doesn’t do drugs or anything like that. It’s just that she has her own opinions, that’s all. And her opinions aren’t Bruce’s opinions . . .” “Who’s Bruce?” “Our stepfather. Mom always sides with him, no matter how asinine he is. It makes Erin angry, so she moved out.” “So Erin is technically an adult, living on her own, free to do whatever she wants,” I said. “Does she have a boyfriend?” Molly shook her head, but avoided my eyes. She wasn’t so sure of that answer, or she thought a lie might better serve her cause. “What makes you think she’s missing?” “She was supposed to pick me up Monday morning. That’s her day off. She’s a groom at the show grounds for Don Jade. He trains jumpers. I didn’t have school. We were going to go to the beach, but she never came or called me. I called her and left a message on her cell phone, and she never called me back.” “She’s probably busy,” I said, stroking the sponge down a length of rein. “Grooms work hard.”

Even as I said it I could see Irina sitting on the mounting block, face turned to the sun as she blew a lazy stream of cigarette smoke at the sky. Most grooms. “She would have called me,” Molly insisted. “I went to the show grounds myself the next day— yesterday. A man at Don Jade’s barn told me Erin doesn’t work there anymore.” Grooms quit. Grooms get fired. Grooms decide one day to become florists and decide the next day they’ d rather be brain surgeons. On the flip side, there are trainers with reputations as slave masters, temperamental prima donnas who go through grooms like disposable razors. I’ve known trainers who demanded a groom sleep every night in a stall with a psychotic stallion, valuing the horse far more than the person. I’ve known trainers who fired five grooms in a week. Erin Seabright was, by the sound of it, headstrong and argumentative, maybe with an eye for the guys. She was eighteen and tasting independence for the first time. . . . And why I was even thinking this through was beyond me. Habit, maybe. Once a cop . . . But I hadn’t been a cop for two years, and I would never be a cop again. “Sounds to me like Erin has a life of her own. Maybe she just doesn’t have time for a kid sister right now.” Molly Seabright’s expression darkened. “I told you Erin’s not like that. She wouldn’t just leave.” “She left home.” “But she didn’t leave me. She wouldn’t.” Finally she sounded like a child instead of a forty-nine-year-old CPA. An uncertain, frightened little girl. Looking to me for help. “People change. People grow up,” I said bluntly, taking the bridle down from the hook. “Maybe it’s your turn.” The words hit their mark like bullets. Tears rose behind the Harry Potter glasses. I didn’t allow myself to feel guilt or pity. I didn’t want a job or a client. I didn’t want people coming into my life with expectations. “I thought you would be different,” she said. “Why would you think that?” She glanced over at the magazine lying on the shelf with the cleaning supplies, D’Artagnon and I floating across the page like something from a dream. But she said nothing. If she had an explanation for her belief, she thought better of sharing it with me. “I’m nobody’s hero, Molly. I’m sorry you got that impression. I’m sure if your parents aren’t worried about your sister, and the cops aren’t worried about your sister, then there’s nothing to be worried about. You don’t need me, and believe me, you’d be sorry if you did.” She didn’t look at me. She stood there for a moment, composing herself, then pulled a small red wallet from the carrying pouch strapped around her waist. She took out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the magazine. “Thank you for your time,” she said politely, then turned and walked away.

I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t try to give her her ten dollars back. I watched her walk away and thought she was more of an adult than I was. Irina appeared in my peripheral vision, propping herself against the archway as if she hadn’t the strength to stand on her own. “You want I should saddle Feliki?” Erin Seabright had probably quit her job. She was probably in the Keys right now enjoying her newfound independence with some cute good-for-nothing. Molly didn’t want to believe that because it would mean a sea change in her relationship with the big sister she idolized. Life is full of disappointments. Molly would learn that the same way as everyone: by being let down by someone she loved and trusted. Irina gave a dramatic sigh. “Yes,” I said. “Saddle Feliki.” She started toward the mare’s stall, then I asked a question for which I would have been far better off not having an answer. “Irina, do you know anything about a jumper trainer named Don Jade?” “Yes,” she said casually, not even looking back at me. “He is a murderer.” 2 The horse world is populated by two kinds of people: those who love horses, and those who exploit horses and the people who love them. Yin and yang. For every good thing in the world, there is something bad to counterbalance. Myself, I’ve always felt the bad far outweighs the good, that there is just enough good to buoy us and keep us from drowning in a sea of despair. But that’s just me. Some of the finest people I’ve known have been involved in the horse business. Caring people who would sacrifice themselves and their own comfort for the animals who relied on them. People who kept their word. People with integrity. And some of the most loathsome, hateful, twisted individuals I’ve ever known have been involved in the horse business. People who would lie, cheat, steal, and sell their own mother for a nickel if they thought it would get them ahead. People who would smile to your face, pat you on the back with one hand, and stab you in the back with the other. From what Irina told me, Don Jade fit into that second category. Sunday morning—the day before Erin Seabright didn’t show to pick up her little sister to go to the beach —a jumper in training with Don Jade had been found dead in his stall, the victim of an allegedly accidental electrocution. Only, according to gossip, there was no such thing as an accident where Don Jade was involved. I went online and tried to learn what I could about Jade from articles on horsesdaily.com and a couple of other equestrian sites. But I wanted the story in full, uncensored, and I knew exactly who to call. If Don Jade defined my second category of horse people, Dr. Dean Soren defined the first. I had known Dr. Dean for a lifetime. Nothing went on in the horse world Dean Soren didn’t know about. He had begun his veterinary career in the year aught on the racetrack, eventually moving on to show horses. Everyone in the business knew and respected Dr. Dean. He had retired from his veterinary practice several years before, and spent his days holding court in the café that was social central of the large stable he owned off Pierson. The woman who ran the café

answered the phone. I told her who I was and asked for Dr. Dean, then listened as she shouted across the room at him. Dr. Dean shouted back: “What the hell does she want?” “Tell him I need to ask him a couple of questions.” The woman shouted that. “Then she can damn well come here and ask me in person,” he shouted back. “Or is she too goddammed important to visit an old man?” That was Dr. Dean. The words charming and kindly were not in his vocabulary, but he was one of the best people I had ever known. Whatever softer elements he lacked, he more than made up for in integrity and honesty. I didn’t want to go to him. Don Jade interested me only because of what Irina had said about him. I was curious, but that was all. Curiosity wasn’t enough to make me want to interact with people. I had no desire to leave my sanctuary, especially in light of the photo in Sidelines. I paced the house, chewing at what was left of my fingernails. Dean Soren had known me off and on most of my life. The winter season I was twelve, he let me ride along with him on his rounds one day a week and act as his assistant. My mother and I had moved to a house in the Polo Club for the season, and I had a tutor so that I could ride every day with my trainer, and not have a school schedule interrupt my horse show schedule. Every Monday—rider’s day off—I would bribe the tutor and slip off with Dr. Dean to hold his instrument tray and clean up used bandages. My own father had never spent that kind of time with me. I had never felt so important. The memories of that winter touched me now in an especially vulnerable place. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt important. I could hardly remember the last time I had wanted to. But I could remember very clearly riding beside Dr. Dean in the enormous Lincoln Town Car he had tricked out as a rolling vet clinic. Perhaps it was that memory that made me pick up my car keys and go. The prime property Dr. Dean owned was populated by hunter/jumper people in one large barn and by dressage people in the other. The offices, Dr. Dean’s personal stable, and the café were all located in a building between the two large barns. The café was a simple open-air affair with a tiki bar. Dr. Dean sat at the centermost table in a carved wooden chair, an old king on his throne, drinking something with a paper umbrella in it. I felt light-headed as I walked toward him, partly afraid to see him—or rather, for him to see me—and partly afraid people would come out of the woodwork to stare at me and ask me if I was really a private investigator. But the café was empty other than Dean Soren and the woman behind the counter. No one ran over from the barns to gawk. Dr. Dean rose from his chair, his piercing eyes on me like a pair of lasers. He was a tall, straight man with a full head of white hair and a long face carved with lines. He had to be eighty, but he still looked fierce and strong. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he said by way of a greeting. “Are you in chemotherapy? Is that what happened to your hair?”

“Good to see you, too, Dr. Dean,” I said, shaking his hand. He looked over at the woman behind the counter. “Marion! Make this girl a cheeseburger! She looks like hell!” Marion, unfazed, went to work. “What are you riding these days?” Dr. Dean asked. I took a seat—a cheap folding chair that seemed too low and made me feel like a child. Or maybe that was just Dean Soren’s effect on me. “I’m riding a couple of Sean’s.” “You don’t look strong enough to ride a pony.” “I’m fine.” “No, you’re not,” he pronounced. “Who is Sean using for a vet now?” “Paul Geller.” “He’s an idiot.” “He’s not you, Dr. Dean,” I said diplomatically. “He told Margo Whitaker her mare needs ‘sound therapy.’ She’s got headphones on the poor horse two hours a day, playing the sounds of nature.” “Gives Margo something to do.” “The horse needs not to have Margo hovering around. That’s what the horse needs,” he growled. He sipped his umbrella drink and stared at me. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, Elena,” he said. “It’s good you’re back. You need to be with the horses. They ground you. A person always knows exactly where they stand with horses. Life makes more sense.” “Yes,” I said, nervous under his scrutiny, afraid he would want to talk about my career and what had happened. But he let it go. Instead, he quizzed me about Sean’s horses, and we reminisced about horses Sean and I had ridden in years past. Marion brought my cheeseburger and I dutifully ate. When I had finished, he said, “You said on the phone you had a question.” “Do you know anything about Don Jade?” I asked bluntly. His eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know about him?” “A friend of a friend has gotten mixed up with him. It sounded a little sketchy to me.” His thick white brows bobbed. He looked over toward the jumper barn. There were a couple of riders out on the jump field taking their mounts over colorful fences. From a distance they looked as graceful and light as deer bounding through a meadow. The athleticism of an animal is a pure and simple thing. Complicated by human emotions, needs, greed, there is little pure or simple about the sport we bring the horses into. “Well,” he said. “Don has always made a pretty picture with some ragged edges.”

“What does that mean?” “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested. I suspected he didn’t want anyone showing up to eavesdrop. I followed him out the back of the café to a row of small paddocks, three of them occupied by horses. “My projects,” Dr. Dean explained. “Two mystery lamenesses and one with a bad case of stomach ulcers.” He leaned against the fence and looked at them, horses he had probably saved from the knackers. He probably had half a dozen more stashed around the place. “They give us all they can,” he said. “They do their best to make sense out of what we ask them to do— demand they do. All they want in return is to be cared for properly and kindly. Imagine if people were like that.” “Imagine,” I echoed, but I couldn’t imagine. I had been a cop a dozen years. The nature of the job and the people and things it had exposed me to had burned away any idealism I might ever have had. The story Dean Soren told me about Don Jade only confirmed my low opinion of the human race. Over the last two decades, Jade’s name had twice been connected to schemes to defraud insurance companies. The scam was to kill an expensive show horse that hadn’t lived up to potential, then have the owner file a claim saying the animal had died of natural causes and collect a six-figure payout. It was an old hustle that had come into the spotlight of the national media in the eighties, when a number of prominent people in the show-jumping world had been caught at it. Several had ended up in prison for a number of years, among them an internationally well-known trainer, and an owner who was heir to an enormous cellular phone fortune. Being rich has never stopped anyone from being greedy. Jade had lurked in the shadows of scandal back then, when he had been an assistant trainer at one of the barns that had lost horses to mysterious causes. He had never been charged with any crime or directly connected to a death. After the scandal broke, Jade had left that employer and spent a few years in France, training and competing on the European show circuit. Eventually the furor over the horse killings died down, and Don Jade came back to the States and found a couple of wealthy clients to serve as cornerstones for his own business. It might seem inconceivable that a man with Jade’s reputation could continue on in the profession, but there are always new owners who don’t know about a trainer’s history, and there are always people who won’t believe what they don’t want to believe. And there are always people who just plain don’t care. There are always people willing to look the other way if they think they stand to gain money or fame. Consequently, Don Jade’s stable attracted clients, many of whom paid him handsomely to campaign their horses in Florida at the Winter Equestrian Festival. In the late nineties, one of those horses was a jumper called Titan. Titan was a talented horse with an unfortunately mercurial temperament. A horse that cost his owner a lot of money and always seemed to sabotage his own efforts to earn his keep. He earned a reputation as a rogue and a head case. Despite his abilities, his market value plummeted. Meanwhile, Titan’s owner, Warren Calvin, a Wall Street trader, had lost a fortune in the stock market. And suddenly one day Titan was dead, and Calvin filed a $250,000 claim with his insurance company. The official story pieced together by Jade and his head groom was that sometime during the night Titan

had become spooked, had gone wild in his stall, breaking a foreleg, and had died of shock and blood loss. However, a former Jade employee had told a different tale, claiming Titan’s death had not been an accident, that Jade had had the animal suffocated, and that the horse had broken his leg in a panic as he was being asphyxiated. It was an ugly story. The insurance company had immediately ordered a necropsy, and Warren Calvin had come under the scrutiny of a New York State prosecutor. Calvin withdrew the claim and the investigation was dropped. No fraud, no crime. The necropsy was never performed. Warren Calvin got out of the horse business. Don Jade weathered the rumors and speculation and went on about his business. He’d had a convenient alibi for the night in question: a girl named Allison, who worked for him and claimed to have been in bed with him at the time of Titan’s death. Jade admitted to the affair, lost his marriage, but kept on training horses. Old clients either believed him or left him, and new pigeons came to roost, unaware. I had learned pieces of this story from my research on the Internet, and from Irina’s gossip. I knew Irina’ s opinion of Jade had been based on the stories she’d heard from other grooms, information that was likely grounded in fact and heavily flavored with spite. The horse business is an incestuous business. Within the individual disciplines (jumping, dressage, et cetera) everyone knows everyone, and half of them have screwed the others, either literally or figuratively. Grudges and jealousies abound. The gossip can be vicious. But I knew if the story came out of Dean Soren’s mouth, it was true. “It’s sad a guy like that stays in business,” I said. Dr. Dean tipped his head and shrugged. “People believe what they want. Don is a charming fellow, and he can ride the hell out of a jump course. You can argue with success all you want, Elena, but you’ll never win. Especially not in this business.” “Sean’s groom told me Jade lost a horse last weekend,” I said. “Stellar,” Dr. Dean said, nodding. His ulcer patient had come to our corner of the paddock and reached her nose out coyly toward her savior, begging for a scratch under the chin. “Story is he bit through the cord on a box fan hanging in his stall and fried himself.” The mare stepped closer and put her head over the fence. I scratched her neck absently, keeping my attention on Dean Soren. “What do you think?” He touched the mare’s head with a gnarled old hand, as gentle as if he were touching a child. “I think old Stellar had more heart than talent.” “Do you think Jade killed him?” “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “It only matters what someone can prove.” He looked at me with those eyes that had seen—and could see—so much about me. “What does your friend’s friend have to say about it?” “Nothing,” I said, feeling sick in my stomach. “She seems to be missing.”

O n Monday morning Don Jade’s groom, Erin Seabright, was to have picked up her little sister to take

her to the beach. She never showed and hadn’t been in contact with her family since. I paced the rooms of the guest house and chewed on the ragged stub of a thumbnail. The Sheriff’s Office hadn’t been interested in the concerns of a twelve-year-old girl. It was doubtful they knew anything about or had any interest in Don Jade. Erin Seabright’s parents presumably knew nothing about Jade either, or Molly wouldn’t have been the only Seabright looking for help. The ten-dollar bill the girl had given me was on the small writing desk beside my laptop. Inside the folded bill was Molly’s own little homemade calling card: her name, address, and a striped cat on a mailing label; the label adhered to a little rectangle of blue poster board. She had printed her phone number neatly at the bottom of the card. Don Jade had been sleeping with one of his hired girls when the horse Titan had died half a decade past. I wondered if that was a habit: fucking grooms. He wouldn’t have been the first trainer with that hobby. I thought about the way Molly had avoided my eyes when she’d told me her sister didn’t have a boyfriend. I walked away from the desk feeling anxious and upset. I wished I’d never gone to Dr. Dean. I wished I had never learned what I’d learned about Don Jade. My life was enough of a mess without looking for trouble. My life was enough of a mess without the intrusion of Molly Seabright and her family problems. I was supposed to be sorting out the tangle of my own life, answering inner questions, finding myself—or facing the fact there was nothing worth finding. If I couldn’t find myself, how was I supposed to find someone else? I didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole. My involvement with horses was supposed to be my salvation. I didn’t want it to have anything to do with people like Don Jade, people who would have a horse killed by electrocution, like Stellar, or by shoving Ping-Pong balls up its nostrils, cutting off its air supply, like Warren Calvin’s Titan. That was how suffocation was accomplished: Ping-Pong balls in the nostrils. My chest tightened at the dark mental image of the animal panicking, throwing itself into the walls of its stall as it desperately tried to escape its fate. I could see the eyes rolling in terror, hear the grunt as it flung itself backward and hit a wall. I could hear the animal scrambling, the terrible sound of a foreleg snapping. The nightmare seemed so real, the sounds blaring inside my mind. Nausea and weakness washed through me. My throat felt closed. I wanted to choke. I went outside onto the little patio, sweating, trembling. I thought I might vomit. I wondered what it said about me that in all the time I’d been a detective, I’d never gotten sick at anything I’d seen one human being do to another, but the idea of cruelty to an animal undid me. The evening air was fresh and cool, and slowly cleared the horrible images from my head. Sean had company. I could see them in the dining room, talking, laughing. Chandelier light spilled through the tall casement windows to be reflected in the dark water of the pool. I had been invited to dinner, but turned him down flat, still furious with him for the Sidelines fiasco. He was probably, even as I stood there, telling his pals about the private investigator who lived in his backyard. Fucking dilettante, using me to amuse his Palm Beach pals. Never giving a thought to the fact that he was playing with my life. Never mind he had saved it first. I didn’t want the reminder. I didn’t want to think of Molly Seabright or her sister. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary, but I felt as if half a dozen unseen hands were grabbing at me, plucking at my clothes, pinching me. I tried to walk away from them, going across the damp lawn to the barn.

Sean’s barn had been designed by the same architect who designed the main house and the guest house. Moorish arches created galleries down the sides. The roof was green tile, the ceiling teak. The light fixtures hanging down the center aisle had been taken out of an art deco–era hotel in Miami. Most humans don’t have homes that cost what his stable cost. It was a lovely space, a place I often came to at night to calm myself. There are few things as quieting and reassuring to me as horses browsing on their evening hay. Their lives are simple. They know they are safe. Their day is over and they trust the sun will rise the next morning. They trust their keepers absolutely. They are utterly vulnerable. Oliver abandoned his food and came to put his head out over his stall door to nuzzle my cheek. He caught the collar of my old denim shirt between his teeth and seemed to smile, pleased with his mischief. I hugged his big head and breathed in the scent of him. When I stepped back, extricating my collar, he looked at me with eyes as kind and innocent as a small child’s. I might have cried had I been physically able to do so. I am not. I went back to the guest house, glancing in again at Sean’s dinner party as I passed. Everyone looked to be having a grand time, smiling, laughing, bathed in golden light. I wondered what I would see if I were to walk past Molly Seabright’s house. Her mother and stepfather talking around her, preoccupied with the details of their mundane lives; Molly isolated from them by her keen intelligence and her worry for her sister, wondering where to turn next. When I went inside my house, the message light on my phone was blinking. I hit the button and braced myself to hear Molly’s voice, then felt something like disappointment when my attorney asked me to please return his call sometime this century. Asshole. We’d been waging the battle for my disability pay since I had left the Sheriff’s Office. (Money I didn’t need, but was entitled to because I had been injured on the job. Never mind that it had been my own fault, or that my injuries were insignificant compared to what had happened to Hector Ramirez.) What the hell didn’t he know about the situation after all this time? Why did he think he needed me? Why would anyone think they needed me? I went into my bedroom and sat on the bed, opened the drawer of the nightstand. I took out the brown plastic bottle of Vicodin and poured the pills out on the tabletop. I stared at them, counted them one by one, touching each pill. How pathetic that a ritual like this might soothe me, that the idea of a drug overdose—or the thought that I wouldn’t take them that night—would calm me. Jesus God, who in their right mind would think they needed me? Disgusted with myself, I dumped the pills back in the bottle, put the bottle back in the drawer. I hated myself for not being what I had always believed myself to be: strong. But then I had long mistaken being spoiled for being strong, being defiant for being independent, being reckless for being brave. Life’s a bitch when you find out in your thirties that everything you ever believed to be true and admirable about yourself is nothing but a self-serving lie. I had painted myself into a corner and I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t know if I could reinvent myself. I didn’t think I had the strength or the will to do it. Hiding in my own private purgatory required no strength. I fully realized how pathetic that was. And I had spent a lot of nights in the past two years wondering if

being dead wasn’t preferable to being pathetic. So far I had decided the answer was no. Being alive at least presented the possibility for improvement. Was Erin Seabright somewhere thinking the same thing? I wondered. Or was it already too late? Or had she found the one circumstance to which death was preferable but not an option? I had been a cop a long time. I had started my career in a West Palm Beach radio car, patrolling neighborhoods where crime was a common career choice and drugs could be purchased on the street in broad daylight. I had done a stint in Vice, viewing the businesses of prostitution and pornography up close and personal. I had spent years working narcotics for the Sheriff’s Office. I had a head full of images of the dire consequences of being a young woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. South Florida offered a lot of places to get rid of bodies or hide ugly secrets. Wellington was an oasis of civilization, but the land beyond the gated communities was more like the land that time forgot. Swamp and woods. Open, hostile scrubland and sugarcane fields. Dirt roads and rednecks and biker meth labs in trailer houses that should have been left to the rats twenty years past. Canals and drainage ditches full of dirty black water and alligators happy to make a meal of any kind of meat. Was Erin Seabright out there somewhere waiting for someone to save her? Waiting for me? God help her. I didn’t want to go. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and splashed water on my face. Trying to wash away any feelings of obligation. I could feel the water only on the right side of my face. Nerves on the left side had been damaged, leaving me with limited feeling and movement. The plastic surgeons had given me a suitably neutral expression, a job so well done no one suspected anything wrong with me other than a lack of emotion. The calm, blank expression stared back at me now in the mirror. Another reminder that no aspect of me was whole or normal. And I was supposed to be Erin Seabright’s savior? I hit the mirror with the heels of my fists, once, then again and again, wishing my image would shatter before my eyes as surely as it had shattered within me two years ago. Another part of me wanted the sharp cut of pain, the cleansing symbolized in shed blood. I wanted to bleed to know I existed. I wanted to vanish to escape the pain. The contradictory forces shoved against one another inside me, crowding my lungs, pushing up against my brain. I went to the kitchen and stared at the knife block on the counter and my car keys lying beside it. Life can change in a heartbeat of time, in a hairsbreadth of space. Without our consent. I had already known that to be the truth. In my deepest heart I suppose I knew it to be true in that moment, that night. I preferred to believe I picked up the keys and left the house to escape my own self-torment. That idea allowed me to continue to believe I was selfish. In truth, the choice I made that night wasn’t safe at all. In truth, I chose to move forward. I tricked myself into choosing life over purgatory. Before it was all over, I feared I might live to regret it—or die trying. 3 Palm Beach Polo Equestrian Center is like a small sovereign nation, complete with royalty and guards at the gates. At the front gates. The back gates stood open during the day and could be reached from Sean’s farm by car in five minutes. People from the neighborhood regularly hacked their horses over on

show days and saved themselves the cost of stabling—ninety dollars a weekend for a pipe-and-canvas stall in a circus tent with ninety-nine other horses. A guard making night rounds would lock the gate at some point late in the evening. The guard hadn’t made his rounds yet that night. I drove through the gates, a yellow parking pass stolen from Sean’s Mercedes hanging on my rearview mirror, just in case. I parked in a row of vehicles along a fence opposite the last of the forty big stabling tents on the property. I drove a sea-green BMW 318i convertible I bought at a sheriff’s auction. The roof sometimes leaked in a hard rain, but it had an interesting option that hadn’t come from the factory in Bavaria: a small, foam-lined metal box hidden in the driver’s door panel, just big enough to hold a good-sized bag of cocaine or a handgun. The Glock nine millimeter I kept there was tucked into the back of my jeans, hidden by my shirttail as I walked away. On show days the show grounds are as busy and crazy as the streets of Calcutta. Golf carts and small motorcycles race back and forth between the barns and showrings, dodging dogs and trucks and trailers, heavy equipment, Jaguars and Porsches, people on horses and children on ponies, and grooms walking charges done up in immaculate braids and draped in two-hundred-dollar cool-out sheets in the custom colors of their stables. The tents look like refugee camps with portable johns out front, people filling buckets from pump hydrants by the side of the dirt road, and illegal aliens dumping muck buckets into the huge piles of manure that are carted away in dump trucks once a day. People school horses on every available open patch of ground, trainers shouting instructions, encouragement, and insults at their students. Announcements blare over the public address system every few minutes. At night the place is a different world. Quiet. Almost deserted. The roads are empty. Security guards make the rounds of the barns periodically. A groom or trainer might drop by to perform the ritual night check or to tend an animal with a medical problem. Some stables leave a guard of their own posted in their elaborately decorated tack room. Baby-sitters for horseflesh worth millions. Bad things can happen under cover of darkness. Rivals can become enemies. Jealousy can become revenge. I once knew a woman who sent a private cop everywhere with her horses after one of her top jumpers was slipped LSD the night before a competition offering fifty thousand dollars in prize money. I’d made a couple of good busts at this show grounds when I’d worked narcotics. Any kind of drug— human or animal, remedial or recreational—could be had here if one knew whom and how to ask. Because I had once been a part of this world, I was able to blend in. I had been away from it long enough that no one knew me. Yet I could walk the walk and talk the talk. I had to hope Sean’s little joke in Sidelines hadn’t taken away my anonymity. I made the dogleg turns from the back area known euphemistically as “The Meadows,” the tent ghetto where show management always sticks the dressage horses that ship in for only several shows each season. From those back tents it takes twenty minutes to walk to the heart of the show grounds. Earth-moving equipment sat parked at one corner, backed into freshly cleared land amid the scrubby woods. The place was being expanded again. Lights glowed in the tents. A woman’s melodic laugh floated on the night air. A man’s low chuckle underscored the sound. I could see the pair standing at the end of an aisle in tent nineteen. Elaborate landscaping at the corner of the tent set the stage around a lighted stable sign with one golden word on a field of hunter green: JADE. I walked past. Now that I had found Jade’s stalls, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I turned on the far side of tent eighteen and doubled back around, coming up through the

aisles of nineteen until I could hear the voices again. “Do you hear anything?” The man’s voice. An accent. Maybe Dutch, maybe Flemish. I stopped breathing. “Gut sounds,” the woman said. “She’s fine, but we’ll go through the drill with the vet anyway. Can’t be seen looking careless after Stellar.” The man gave a humorless laugh. “People have made their minds up about that. They believe what they want.” “The worst,” the woman said. “Jane Lennox called today. She’s thinking of putting Park Lane with another trainer. I talked her out of it.” “I’m sure you did. You’re very persuasive, Paris.” “This is America. You’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.” “Innocent always if you’re rich or beautiful or charming.” “Don is beautiful and charming, and everyone believes he’s guilty.” “Like O.J. was guilty? He’s playing golf and fucking white women.” “What a thing to say!” “It’s true. And Jade has a barn full of horses. Americans . . .” Disdain. “I’m an American, V.” An edge to the tone. “Do you want to call me stupid?” “Paris . . .” Smarmy contrition. “Stupid Americans buy your horses and line your pockets. You should show more respect. Or does that just prove how stupid we are?” “Paris . . .” Smarmier contrition. “Don’t be angry with me. I don’t want you angry with me.” “No, you don’t.” A Jack Russell terrier came sniffing around the corner then and stared at me while he raised his leg and peed on a bale of hay, considering whether or not to blow my cover. The leg went down and the dog went off like a car alarm. I stood where I was. The woman called out: “Milo! Milo, come here!” Milo stood his ground. He bounced up and down like a wind-up toy every time he barked. The woman rounded the corner, looking surprised to see me. She was blond and pretty in dark breeches and a green polo shirt with a couple of gold necklaces showing at the throat. She flashed a thousand-watt toothpaste-ad smile that was nothing more than jaw muscles flexing. “Sorry. He thinks he’s a Rottweiler,” she said, scooping up the Russell. “Can I help you?” “I don’t know. I’m looking for someone. I was told she works for Don Jade. Erin Seabright?”

“Erin? What do you want with her?” “This is kind of awkward,” I said. “I heard she was looking for another job. I have a friend in the market for a groom. You know how it is during the season.” “Do I ever!” She gave a dramatic, put-upon sigh, rolling the big brown eyes. An actress. “We’re looking too. Erin quit, I’m sad to say.” “Really? When was that?” “Sunday. Left us high and dry. Found something more interesting up in Ocala, I guess. Don tried to talk her out of it, but he said her mind was made up. I was sorry to hear it. I liked Erin, but you know how flighty these girls can be.” “Huh. I’m surprised. The way I understood it, she wanted to stay in the Wellington area. Did she leave an address—to have her paycheck sent?” “Don paid her before she left. I’m Don’s assistant trainer, by the way. Paris Montgomery.” Keeping the dog tucked against her, she held a hand out and shook mine. She had a strong grip. “And you are . . . ?” “Elle Stevens.” A name I had used undercover in my past life. It fell off my tongue without hesitation. “So, she left Sunday. Was that before or after Stellar went down?” The smile died. “Why would you ask that?” “Well . . . a disgruntled employee leaves and suddenly you lose a horse—” “Stellar bit through an electrical cord. It was an accident.” I shrugged. “Hey, what do I know? People talk.” “People don’t know shit.” “Is there a problem here?” The man stepped into the picture. Mid-fifties, tall and elegant with silver temples highlighting a full head of dark hair. He wore a stern, aristocratic expression, pressed tan slacks, a pink Lacoste knit shirt, and a black silk ascot at his throat. “Not at all,” I said. “I was just looking for someone.” “Erin,” Paris Montgomery said to him. “Erin?” “Erin. My groom. The one that left.” He made a sour face. “That girl? She’s good for nothing. What would you want with her?” “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “She’s gone.” “What’s your friend’s name?” Paris asked. “In case I hear of someone.” “Sean Avadon. Avadonis Farm.” The man’s cold blue eyes brightened. “He has some very nice horses.”

“Yes, he does.” “You work for him?” he asked. I supposed I did look like hired help with my hacked-off hair, old jeans, and work boots. “He’s an old friend. I’m leasing a horse from him until I can find what I’m looking for.” He smiled then like a cat with a cornered mouse. His teeth were brilliantly white. “I can help you with that.” A horse dealer. The third-oldest profession. Forerunners of used-car salesmen the world over. Paris Montgomery rolled her eyes. A truck pulled up at the end of the tent. “That’s Dr. Ritter. I’ve got to go.” She turned the big smile back on and shook my hand again. “Nice meeting you, Elle,” she said, as if we’d never had that moment of unpleasantness at the mention of Stellar’s death. “Good luck with your search.” “Thanks.” She set the Russell down and followed the barking beast around the corner as the vet called for her. The man held his hand out to me. “Tomas Van Zandt.” “Elle Stevens.” “My pleasure.” He held my hand a little too long. “I’d better be going,” I said, drifting back a step. “It’s getting late for a wild-goose chase.” “I’ll take you to your car,” he offered. “Beautiful women shouldn’t go around unescorted here in the dark. You don’t know what kind of people might be around.” “I have a pretty good idea, but thanks for your concern. Women shouldn’t get into cars with men they’ve only just met either,” I said. He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. “I am a gentleman, Elle. Harmless. Without designs. Wanting nothing of you but a smile.” “You’d sell me a horse. That would cost me plenty.” “But only the best horses,” he promised. “I will find you exactly what you need and for a good price. Your friend Avadon likes good horses. Maybe you could introduce us.” Horse dealers. I rolled my eyes and gave him half a smile. “Maybe I just want a ride to my car.” Looking pleased, he led the way out of the tent to a black Mercedes sedan and opened the door for me. “You must have a lot of satisfied customers if you can rent a car like this for the season,” I said. Van Zandt smiled like the cat that got the cream and the canary. “I have such happy clients, one gave me the loan of this car for the winter.”

“My goodness. If only my ex had made me so happy, he might still be considered in the present tense.” Van Zandt laughed. “Where are you parked, Miss Elle?” “The back gate.” As we started down the road toward The Meadows I said, “You know this girl, Erin? She’s not a good worker?” He pursed his lips like he’d gotten a whiff of something rotten. “Bad attitude. Smart mouth. Flirting with the clients. American girls don’t make good grooms. They’re spoiled and lazy.” “I’m an American girl.” He ignored that. “Get a good Polish girl. They’re strong and cheap.” “Can I get one at Wal-Mart? I’ve got a Russian now. She thinks she’s a czarina.” “Russians are arrogant.” “And what are Dutchmen?” He pulled the Mercedes in where I pointed, alongside my Beemer. “I am from Belgium,” he corrected. “Men from Belgium are charming and know how to treat ladies.” “Slick rascals, more like,” I said. “Ladies should be on their guard, I think.” Van Zandt chuckled. “You are no pushover, Elle Stevens.” “It takes more than a smile and an accent to sweep me off my feet. I’ll make you work for it.” “A challenge!” he said, delighted at the prospect. I got out of the car without waiting for him to come around and open the door, and dug my keys out of my hip pocket. The back of my hand brushed over the butt of the gun tucked in my waistband. “Thanks for the ride,” I said. “Thank you, Elle Stevens. You brightened an otherwise boring evening.” “Don’t let Ms. Montgomery hear you say that.” “She’s all gloom, talking about the dead gelding.” “Losing a horse worth that kind of money would bring me down too.” “It wasn’t her money.” “Maybe she liked the horse.” He shrugged. “There’s always another.” “Which I’m sure you’ll be happy to supply to the grieving owner for a price.” “Of course. Why not? That’s business—for me and for her.”

“You sentimental fool, you.” In the harsh glow of the security light from above I saw the muscles of Van Zandt’s jaw flex. “I am in this business thirty years, Elle Stevens,” he said, a thread of impatience in his voice. “I am not a heartless man, but for professionals horses come and horses go. It’s a shame the gelding died, but with professionals a sentimental fool is just that: a fool. People have to move on with their lives. Owners too. The insurance will pay for the dead horse, and his owner will buy another.” “Which you will be happy to find.” “Of course. I know already a horse in Belgium: clean X rays and twice as good as that one over the fences.” “And for a mere one-point-eight million he can belong to some lucky American and Don Jade can ride him.” “The good ones cost, the good ones win.” “And the rest can bite through electrical cords in the dead of night and fry themselves?” I asked. “Careful who you say that to, Van Zandt. Some insurance investigator might hear you and think the wrong thing.” He didn’t shrug that off. I sensed him tense. “I never said anyone killed the horse,” he said, his voice tight and low. He was angry with me. I wasn’t supposed to have a brain. I was supposed to be the next American with too much money and too little sense, waiting for him to charm me and sweep me off to Europe on a buying trip. “No, but Jade has that reputation, doesn’t he?” Van Zandt stepped closer. My back pressed against the frame of my car’s roof. I had to look up at him. There wasn’t a soul around. There was nothing but a lot of open country beyond the back gates. I slipped one hand into the back of my waistband and touched my gun. “Are you that insurance person, Elle Stevens?” he asked. “Me?” I laughed. “God, no. I don’t work.” I said the word with the kind of disdain my mother would have used. “It’s just a good story, that’s all. Don Jade: Dangerous Man of Mystery. You know us Palm Beachers. Can’t resist a juicy scandal. My biggest concern in life at the moment is where my next good horse is coming from. What goes on with this show-jumping crowd is nothing but good gossip to me.” He relaxed then, having decided I was sufficiently self-absorbed. He handed me his card and dredged up the charm again. Nothing like greed to rally a man. “Give me a call, Elle Stevens. I’ll find you your horse.” I tried to smile, knowing only one side of my mouth moved upward at all. “I may take you up on that, Mr. Van Zandt.” “Call me V.,” he suggested, his tone strangely intimate. “V. for Very Good Horses. V. for Victory in the showring.” V. for vomit. “We are friends now,” he announced. He leaned down and kissed my right cheek, then the left, then the right again. His lips were cold and dry.

“Three times,” he said, Mr. Suave again. “Like the Dutch.” “I’ll remember that. Thanks again for the ride.” I got into my car and backed out of the line. The back gate was locked. I turned and went back down the road past tent nineteen. Van Zandt followed me to the truck entrance. The lights blazed in the four big permanent barns to the right. A guard stood in the little booth between traffic lanes before the main gates, reggae music blasting from a radio on the counter. I waved at him. He waved me past without a question, his attention on the eighteen-wheel commercial horse van pulling in. I could have had a trunk full of stolen saddles. I could have had a body back there. I might have been anyone, may have done anything. An unsettling thought for the ride home. I turned right on Pierson. Van Zandt turned right on Pierson. I watched him in the mirror, wondering if he hadn’t believed me when I’d said I wasn’t an insurance investigator. I wondered what his reaction would be if he saw the photo in Sidelines and put two and one together. But people are funny that way, more easily fooled than the average person might like to believe. I didn’t look like the woman in the photo. My hair was short. I hadn’t given the name of the woman in the photo. The only real connection was Sean. Still, the words private investigator would set off alarms. I had to hope Sean was right: that only dressage people read the dressage section. I turned right on South Shore. Van Zandt turned left. I cut my lights, pulled a U-turn, and followed at a distance, past the polo stadium. He turned in at The Players club. Wining and dining. Part of a horse dealer’s job. A new best friend at the bar in a place like that could turn out to have deep pockets and no self-restraint. Van Zandt stood to make a tidy profit selling the Belgian jumper to Stellar’s owner, who stood to collect a fat insurance payoff on a horse with no real future. And Don Jade—who had trained and shown Stellar, and would train and show the next one—stood in the middle of them, taking money at both ends of the deal. They might have all been in Players together right then, drinking to Stellar’s timely demise. Erin Seabright hadn’t been heard from since the night Stellar died. I dismissed the idea of going into the club. I wasn’t prepared. I gunned my car’s engine, turned it around, and headed home. I was about to become a private investigator. 4 I wonder why I’m still alive. Billy Golam had pointed that gun right in my face. In countless nightmares I have looked down the barrel of that .357 and sucked in what should have been my final breath. But Golam had turned and fired in another direction. Was living my punishment, my purgatory? Or was I supposed to have chosen to end it myself to pay for my recklessness? Or was I just damn lucky and unwilling to believe it? Four-thirty A.M. I was lying in bed, staring at the blades of the ceiling fan go around. The guest house had been decorated by a Palm Beach interior designer who had gone amok with delusions of Caribbean plantations. It

seemed a cliché to me, but no one had ever paid me to pick out paint chips and pillow shams. At four I went out and fed the horses. By five I had showered. It had been so long since I’d had to introduce myself to people and care about what they thought of me that I couldn’t remember how to go about it. I couldn’t shake the idea that I would be rejected on sight, or if not on sight, on reputation. What a strange conceit to believe everyone in the world knew all about me, all about what I’d done and what had happened to end my career. I had been a story on the evening news for a couple of days. A sound bite. Something to fill the airtime before the weather came on. The truth was probably that no one not directly involved with what had happened, no one not living in that world of cops, had given the story more than the most cursory attention. The truth is that people seldom really care about the catastrophic events of someone else’s life beyond thinking, “Better her than me.” I stood in my underwear, staring at myself in the mirror. I put some gel in my hair and tried to make it look as if it had an intentional style. I wondered if I should attempt makeup. I hadn’t worn any since the surgery to put my face back together. My plastic surgeon had given me the card of a woman who specialized in postsurgical makeup. The Post-Traumatic Avon Lady. I had thrown the card away. I dressed, discarding a dozen different choices and finally settling on a sleeveless silk blouse the color of fresh-poured concrete and a pair of brown trousers that were so big around the waist, I had to pin them shut to keep them from sliding down my hips. I used to care about fashion. I killed some time on the Internet, chewed my nails, and made some notes. I found nothing of interest on Tomas Van Zandt. His name did not appear even on his own Web site: worldhorsesales.com. The site listed on his business card showed photos of horses that had been brokered through Van Zandt’s business. Phone numbers were listed for a business office in Brussels, a number for European sales, and for two U.S. subagents, one of whom was Don Jade. I found several articles about Paris Montgomery in the Chronicle of the Horse and Horses Daily describing recent wins in the showring, talking about her humble beginnings riding ponies bareback in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. According to the propaganda, she had worked her way up the ranks from groom to working student to assistant trainer; succeeding on hard work and raw talent. And charm. And the fact that she could have been a model. She had been Don Jade’s assistant trainer for three years and was so grateful for the opportunity, blah, blah, blah. So few people realized what a great guy he really was. He’d been unfortunate to do business with some people of questionable ethics, but shouldn’t be condemned by association, et cetera, et cetera. Jade was quoted as saying Paris Montgomery had a bright future and the ambition and talent to attain whatever she set her sights on. Photographs with the articles showed Montgomery going over a fence on a horse called Park Lane, and close-ups of her flashing the big smile. The smile irritated me. It was too bright and came too easily. The charm seemed insincere. Then again, I’ d only just met her for ten minutes. Maybe I didn’t like her because I couldn’t smile and wasn’t charming. I flipped the screen shut on my laptop and went outside. Dawn was a pale notion on the edge of the eastern sky as I let myself into Sean’s house through the French doors into the dining room. He was alone in bed, snoring. I sat down beside him and patted his cheek. His eyelids pulled slowly upward,

revealing a lot of red veins. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I was hoping for Tom Cruise,” he said in a voice full of gravel. “Sorry to disappoint. If a horse dealer named Van Zandt comes around, my name is Elle Stevens and you’re looking for a groom.” “What?” He pushed himself upright and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “Van Zandt? Tomas Van Zandt?” “You know him?” “I know of him. He’s the second-biggest crook in Europe. Why would he come here?” “Because he thinks you might buy horses from him.” “Why would he think that?” “Because I pretty much led him to believe it.” “Uh!!” “Don’t look offended,” I said. “That expression emphasizes the lines around your mouth.” “Bitch.” He pouted for a moment, then caught himself and rubbed his hands over his face—outward and upward from his mouth. The ten-second face-lift. “You know I already have a European connection. You know I only work with Toine.” “Yes, I know. The last honest horse dealer.” “The only one in the history of the world, as far as I know.” “So let Van Zandt think he’s wooing you away from Toine. He’ll have an orgasm. If he comes around, pretend you’re interested. You owe me.” “I don’t owe you that much.” “Really?” I said. “Thanks to you, I now have a client and a career I didn’t want.” “You’ll thank me later.” “I’ll exact my revenge later.” I leaned over and patted his stubbled cheek again. “Happy horse dealing.” He groaned. “And, by the way,” I said, pausing at the door. “He thinks I’m a Palm Beach dilettante and that I’m leasing D’Artagnon from you.” “I’m supposed to keep this all straight?” I shrugged. “What else have you got to do with your time?” I was almost out the bedroom door when he spoke again.

“El . . .” I turned back toward him, one hand on the door frame. He looked at me, uncharacteristically serious, a certain softness in his expression. He wanted to say something kind. I wanted him to pretend this day was like any other. We each seemed fully aware of the other’s thoughts. I held my breath. One side of his mouth lifted in a smile of concession. “Nice outfit,” he said. I waved at him and left the house.

M olly Seabright lived in a two-story stucco house on the edge of a development called Binks Forest. Upscale. Backyard on a fairway. A white Lexus in the drive. There were lights on in the house. The hardworking upper middle class preparing to face another day. I parked down the street and waited. At seven-thirty kids in the neighborhood began drifting out of their homes and wandering past me toward the school bus stop at the end of the block. Molly emerged from the Seabright house pulling a wheeled book bag behind her, looking like a miniature corporate exec on her way to catch a plane. I got out of my car and leaned back against it with my arms crossed. She spotted me from twenty feet away. “I’ve reconsidered,” I said as she stopped in front of me. “I’ll help you find your sister.” She didn’t smile. She didn’t jump for joy. She stared up at me and said, “Why?” “Because I don’t like the people your sister was mixed up with.” “Do you think something bad has happened to her?” “We know something has happened to her,” I said. “She was here and now she isn’t. Whether or not it’s something bad remains to be seen.” Molly nodded at that, apparently pleased I hadn’t tried to falsely reassure her. Most adults speak to children as if they’re stupid simply because they haven’t lived as many years. Molly Seabright wasn’t stupid. She was smart and she was brave. I wasn’t going to talk down to her. I had even decided not to lie to her if I could help myself. “But if you’re not a private investigator, what good are you?” she asked. I shrugged. “How hard can it be? Ask a few questions, make a few phone calls. It’s not brain surgery.” She considered my answer. Or maybe she was considering whether or not to say what she said next. “You were a sheriff’s detective once.” I might have been that stunned if she had reached up and hit me in the head with a hammer. I who wouldn’t talk down to a child. It hadn’t occurred to me Molly Seabright would run home and do her own detective work online. I felt suddenly naked, exposed in that way I had earlier convinced myself was unlikely to happen. Blindsided by a twelve-year-old. I glanced away. “Is that your bus?” A school bus had pulled up to the curb and the children gathered there were clambering aboard. “I walk,” she said primly. “I found a story about you in the computer archives of the Post.”

“Only one? I’m offended.” “More than one.” “Okay, so my dirty secret is exposed. I was a detective for Palm Beach County. Now I’m not.” She understood to leave it at that. Wiser than most people I’ve known three times her age. “We need to discuss your fee,” she said. Ms. Business. “I’ll take the hundred you offered and we’ll see what happens.” “I appreciate that you’re not trying to patronize me.” “I just said I’d take a hundred dollars from a kid. Sounds pretty low to me.” “No,” she said, those too-serious eyes staring at me through the magnifying lenses of the Harry Potter glasses. “I don’t think so.” She put her hand out. “Thank you for accepting my case.” “Jesus. You make me feel like we should sign a contract,” I said, shaking her hand. “Technically, we should. But I trust you.” “Why would you trust me?” I had the feeling she had an answer, but that she thought it might be too much for me to comprehend and so thought better of sharing it with me. I began to wonder if she was really from this planet. “Just because,” she said. A child’s pat answer to people who aren’t really paying attention. I let it go. “I’ll need some information from you. A photograph of Erin, her address, make and model of her car, that sort of thing.” As I was asking, she bent down, unzipped a compartment of her book bag, and withdrew a manila envelope, which she handed to me. “You’ll find everything in there.” “Of course.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. “And when you went to the sheriff’s department, who did you speak with?” “Detective Landry. Do you know him?” “I know who he is.” “He was very rude and condescending.” “So was I.” “You weren’t condescending.” A black Jag backed out of the Seabright garage, a suit at the wheel. Bruce Seabright, I assumed. He turned away from us and drove down the street. “Is your mother home?” I asked. “I’ll need to speak with her.” The prospect didn’t thrill her. She looked a little nauseated. “She goes to work at nine. She’s a real estate agent.”

“I’ll have to speak with her, Molly. And with your stepfather, too. I’ll leave you out of it. I’ll tell them I’m an insurance investigator.” She nodded, still looking grim. “You should leave for school now. I don’t want to be arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” “No,” she said, heading back toward the house, head up, her little book case rattling along on the sidewalk behind her. We should all have so much character.

K rystal Seabright was on a cordless phone when Molly and I walked into the house. She was leaning over a hall table, peering into an ornate rococo mirror, trying to stick down a false eyelash with a long pink fingernail while she chattered to someone about an absolutely fabulous town house in Sag Harbor Court. No one would have picked her out of a lineup as Molly’s mother. Having met Molly first, I might have pictured her mother as a buttoned-up attorney or a doctor or a nuclear physicist. I might have, except that I knew firsthand children and parents didn’t always match. Krystal was a bottle blonde who’d used one too many bottles in her thirty-some years. Her hair was nearly white and looked as fragile as cotton candy. She wore just a little too much makeup. Her pink suit was a little too tight and a little too bright, her sandals a little too tall in the spike heel. She glanced at us out of the corner of her eye. “. . . I can fax you all the details as soon as I get to my office, Joan. But you really need to see it to appreciate it. Places like this just aren’t available now during the season. You’re so lucky this just came up.” She turned away from the mirror and looked at me, then at Molly with a what now? expression, but continued her conversation with the invisible Joan, setting up an appointment at eleven, scribbling it into a messy daybook. Finally she set the phone aside. “Molly? What’s going on?” she asked, looking at me, not her daughter. “This is Ms. Estes,” Molly said. “She’s an investigator.” Krystal looked at me like I might have beamed down from Mars. “A what?” “She wants to talk to you about Erin.” Fury swept up Krystal’s face like a flash fire burning into the roots of her hair. “Oh, for God’s sake, Molly! I can’t believe you did this! What is the matter with you?” The hurt in Molly’s eyes was sharp enough that I felt it myself. “I told you something bad’s happened,” Molly insisted. “I can’t believe you do these things!” Krystal ranted, her frustration with her younger daughter clearly nothing new. “Thank God Bruce isn’t here.” “Mrs. Seabright,” I said, “I’m looking into a case at the equestrian center which might involve your daughter Erin. I’d like to speak with you in private, if possible.”

She looked at me, wild-eyed, still angry. “There’s nothing to discuss. We don’t know anything about what goes on over there.” “But Mom—” Molly started, desperately wanting her mother to care. Her mother turned a withering, bitter look on her. “If you’ve told this woman some ridiculous story, you’ re going to be in such hot water, young lady. I can’t believe the trouble you’re making. You don’t have any consideration for anyone but yourself.” Two red dots colored Molly’s otherwise paste-pale cheeks. I thought she might start to cry. “I’m worried about Erin,” she said in a small voice. “Erin is the last person anyone needs to worry about,” Krystal said. “Go to school. Go. Get out of this house. I’m so angry with you right now . . . If you’re late for school you can just sit in detention this afternoon. Don’t bother calling me.” I wanted to grab a handful of Krystal Seabright’s overprocessed hair and shake her until the hair broke off in my fist. Molly turned and went outside, leaving the front door wide open. The sight of her wheeling away her little book bag made my heart ache. “You can leave right behind her,” Krystal Seabright said to me. “Or I can call the police.” I turned back to face her and said nothing for a moment while I tried to wrestle my temper into submission. I was reminded of the fact that I had been a terrible patrol officer when I’d first gone on the job because I lacked the requisite diplomatic skills for domestic situations. I have always been of the opinion that some people really do just need to be bitch-slapped. Molly’s mother was one of those people. Krystal was trembling like a Chihuahua, having some control issues of her own. “Mrs. Seabright, for what it’s worth, Molly has nothing to do with this,” I lied. “Oh? She hasn’t tried to tell you her sister has vanished and that we should be calling the police and the FBI and America’s Most Wanted?” “I know that Erin hasn’t been seen since Sunday afternoon. Doesn’t that concern you?” “Are you implying I don’t care about my children?” Again with the bug-eyes and the practiced affront— always a sign of low self-esteem. “I’m not implying anything.” “Erin is an adult. At least in her own mind. She wanted to live on her own, take care of herself.” “So you’re not aware that she was working for a man who’s been involved in schemes to defraud insurance agencies?” She looked confused. “She works for a horse trainer. That’s what Molly said.” “You haven’t spoken with Erin?” “When she left she made it very clear she wanted nothing more to do with me. Living a decent life in a lovely home was just all too boring for her. After everything I’ve done for her and her sister . . .”

She went to the hall table, glanced at herself in the mirror, and dug her hand into a big pink and orange Kate Spade purse. She came out of the bag with a cigarette and a slim lighter, and moved toward the open front door. “I’ve worked so hard, made so many sacrifices . . .” she said, more or less to herself, as if it comforted her to portray herself as the heroine of the story. She lit the cigarette and blew the smoke outside. “She’s done nothing but give me grief since the night she was conceived.” “Does Erin’s father live in the vicinity? Might she have gone to spend time with him?” Krystal burst out laughing, but not with humor. She didn’t look at me. “No. She wouldn’t have done that.” “Where is her father?” “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t heard from him in fifteen years.” “Do you know who Erin’s friends are?” “What do you want with her?” she asked. “What’s she done now?” “Nothing I’m aware of. She may have some information. I’d just like to ask her some questions about the man she’s been working for. Has Erin been in trouble in the past?” She leaned way out the door, took another hard drag on the cigarette, and exhaled the smoke at a hibiscus shrub. “I don’t see that my family is any business of yours.” “Has she ever been involved with drugs?” She snapped a look at me. “Is that what this is about? Is she mixed up with drug people? God. That’s all I need.” “I’m concerned about where she’s gone,” I said. “Erin’s disappearance happened to coincide with the death of a very expensive horse.” “You think she killed a horse?” I thought my head might split in two. Krystal’s concern seemed to be about everyone except her daughter. “I just want to ask her some questions about her boss. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She stepped outside, tapped her ash into a plant pot, and hopped back into the house. “Responsibility isn ’t Erin’s thing. She thinks being an adult means doing whatever you damn well please. She’s probably run off to South Beach with some boy.” “Does she have a boyfriend?” She scowled and looked down at the tiled floor. Down and to the right: a lie. “How would I know? She doesn’t check in with me.” “Molly said she hasn’t been able to reach Erin on her cell phone.” “Molly.” She puffed on the cigarette and tried to wave the smoke out toward the street. “Molly is twelve. Molly thinks Erin is cool. Molly reads too many mystery novels and watches too much A&E. What kind of child watches A&E? Law and Order, Investigative Reports. When I was twelve I was watching

Brady Bunch reruns.” “I think Molly has reason to be concerned, Mrs. Seabright. I think you might want to speak with the Sheriff’s Office about filing a missing person’s report.” Krystal Seabright looked horrified. Not at the prospect that her daughter might have been the victim of foul play, but at the idea of someone from Binks Forest having to file a police report. What would the neighbors say? They might put two and two together and figure out her last house was a double-wide. “Erin is not missing,” she insisted. “She’s just . . . gone somewhere, that’s all.” A teenage boy emerged through a door into the upstairs hall and came thudding down the stairs. He looked maybe seventeen or eighteen and hungover. Gray-faced and glum, with platinum-tipped dark hair that stood up in dirty tufts. His T-shirt looked slept in and worse. He didn’t resemble Krystal or her daughters. I made the assumption he belonged to Bruce Seabright, and wondered why Molly had made no mention of him to me. Krystal swore under her breath and surreptitiously tossed her cigarette out the door. The boy’s eyes followed it, then went back to her. Busted. “Chad? What are you doing home?” she asked. A whole new tone of voice. Nervous. Obsequious. “Aren’t you feeling well, honey? I thought you’d gone to school.” “I’m sick,” he said. “Oh. Oh. Uh . . . Would you like me to make you some toast?” she asked brightly. “I have to get to the office, but I could make you some toast.” “No, thank you.” “You were out awfully late last night,” Krystal said sweetly. “You probably just need your sleep.” “Probably.” Chad glanced at me, and slouched away. Krystal scowled at me and spoke in a low voice. “Look: we don’t need you. Just go away. Erin will turn up when Erin needs something.” “What about Erin?” Chad asked. He had come back into the hall, a two-liter bottle of Coke in one hand. Breakfast of champions. Krystal Seabright closed her eyes and huffed. “Nothing. Just— Nothing. Go back to bed, honey.” “I need to ask her some questions about the guy she works for,” I said to the boy. “Do you happen to know where I can find her?” He shrugged and scratched his chest. “Sorry, I haven’t seen her.” As he said it, the black Jag rolled back into the driveway. Krystal looked stricken. Chad disappeared down a hall. The man I assumed to be Bruce Seabright got out of the car and strode toward the open front door, a man on a mission. He was stocky with thinning hair slicked straight back and a humorless expression. “Honey, did you forget something?” Krystal asked in the same tone she’d used with Chad. The overeager servant.

“The Fairfields file. I’ve got a major deal going down on a piece of that property this morning and I don’t have the file. I know I set it on the dining room table. You must have moved it.” “No, I don’t think so. I—” “How many times do I have to tell you, Krystal? Do not touch my business files.” There was a condescension in his tone that couldn’t have been categorized as abusive, but was, in a subtle, insidious way. “I’m—I’m sorry, honey,” she stammered. “Let me go find it for you.” Bruce Seabright looked at me with a hint of wariness, like he suspected I might have a permit to solicit charitable donations. “I’m sorry if I interrupted,” he said politely. “I have a very important meeting to get to.” “I gathered. Elena Estes,” I said, holding my hand out. “Elena is considering a condo in Sag Harbor,” Krystal hurried to say. There was a hint of desperation in her eyes when she looked at me in search of a coconspirator. “Why would you show her something there, darling?” he asked. “Property values in that neighborhood will only decline. You should show her something at Palm Groves. Send her to the office. Have Kathy show her a model.” “Yes, of course,” Krystal murmured, swallowing down the criticism and the slight, allowing him to take away her sale. “I’ll go find that file for you.” “I’ll do it, honey. I don’t want anything dropping out of it.” Something on the stoop caught Seabright’s eye. He bent down and picked up the cigarette butt Krystal had thrown out. He held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger and looked at me. “I’m sorry, but smoking is not allowed on my property.” “Sorry,” I said, taking the thing away from him. “It’s a filthy habit.” “Yes, it is.” He went into the house to find his errant file. Krystal rubbed at her forehead and stared down at her slightly too flashy sandals, blinking like she might have been fighting tears. “Just go, please,” she whispered. I stuck the butt in the plant pot and went. What else could I say to a woman who was so under the thumb of her domineering husband, she would sooner abandon her own child than displease him? Over and over in my life I’ve found that people are amazing, and seldom in a good way. 5 We never know the quality of someone else’s life, though we seldom resist the temptation to assume and pass judgment. Plenty of women would have looked at Krystal Seabright’s situation through the filter of distance and assumed she had it made. Big house, fancy car, career in real estate, land developer husband. Looked good on paper. There was even a Cinderella element to the story: single mother of two swept out of her lowly station in life, et cetera, et cetera.

So too with the apparently well-heeled folks who owned the four thousand expensive horses at the equestrian center. Champagne and caviar every day for a snack. A maid in every mansion, a Rolls in every five-car garage. The truth was more checkered and less glamorous. There were personal stories full of nasty little plot twists: insecurities and infidelities. There were people who came to the Florida season on a dream and a shoestring, saving every dime all year so they could share a no-frills condo with two other riders, take a few precious lessons from a big-name trainer, and show their mediocre mount to anonymity in the amateur arena just for the love of the sport. There were second-tier professionals with second mortgages on farms in East Buttcrack, hanging on the fringes of the big stables, hoping to pick up a real client or two. There were dealers like Van Zandt: hyenas prowling the water hole, in search of vulnerable prey. The lush life has many shades of gray beneath the gold leaf. It was now officially my job to dig up some of those darker veins. I thought it would be best to put in as much time as possible near the Jade stable before someone attached to Don Jade went into the bathroom with a copy of Sidelines and came out with a revelation. I’ d spent enough time working undercover as a narc to know the chances of that were small, but there nonetheless. People see what they’re programmed to see, they seldom look for anything else. Still, a cop ’s life undercover is never without the fear of being made. It can happen any second, and the deeper under, the worse the timing. My strategy working undercover had always been to get as much information as possible, as fast as possible; to sketch my illusion boldly and quickly. Dazzle the mark, draw them in close, then hit with the sucker punch and get out. My superiors in the Sheriff’s Office had frowned on my methods because I’d borrowed my style from con artists rather than cops. But they had seldom frowned on the outcome. Sean’s parking pass still hanging from my rearview mirror, I rolled past the guard at the gatehouse and into the maelstrom of the Wellington show grounds day shift. There were horses everywhere, people everywhere, cars everywhere, golf carts everywhere. A show was under way and would run through Sunday. Horses and ponies would be jumping over fences in half a dozen competition rings. The chaos would work in my favor, like running a game of three-card monte on a corner in Times Square. Difficult to keep your eye on the queen when you’re in the middle of a circus. I parked in the second lot, cut past the permanent barns and the vet clinic, bypassed the concession stands, and found myself on the show grounds’ version of Fifth Avenue: a row of mobile tack shops and pricey boutiques in tricked-out fifth-wheel trailers. Custom jewelers, custom tailors, antiques dealers, monogramming shops, cappuccino stands. I hit a couple of the boutiques to pick up trappings for my role as dilettante. Image is everything. I purchased and put on a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with black grosgrain ribbon. Men never take seriously a woman in a hat. I chose a couple of silk blouses and long wraparound skirts made from vintage saris. I made sure the clerks went overboard with the tissue paper, making the shopping bags look full to bursting. I bought some impractical sandals and trendy bracelets, and put them on. When I thought I looked frivolous enough, I went in search of Don Jade. There was no sign of him or of Paris Montgomery at his stalls. An underfed Guatemalan man was mucking out a stall, head down, trying not to attract attention lest the next stranger be an INS agent. The front of another stall had been removed to create a grooming bay. In it an overfed girl in a too-revealing tank top was grudgingly brushing a dappled gray horse. The girl had the mean, narrow eyes of someone who blames everyone but herself for the shortfalls in her life. I caught her looking at me sideways, her expression sour.

I tipped my head back and regarded her from under the brim of the ridiculous hat. “I’m looking for Paris. Is she around?” “She’s riding Park Lane in the schooling ring.” “Is Don with her?” Don, my old pal. “Yeah.” And did I want to make something of it? “And you are . . . ?” She looked surprised I would bother to ask, then suspicious, then determined she would take advantage of the opportunity. “Jill Morone. I’m Mr. Jade’s head groom.” She was Mr. Jade’s only groom by the look of it, and by the anemic way she was wielding that brush, she defined the position loosely. “Really? Then you must know Erin Seabright.” The girl’s reactions were so slow, her brain might have been in another time zone. I could see her every thought move sluggishly through her mind as she tried to decide on an answer. She dragged the brush along the horse’s shoulder. The horse pinned its ears and rolled an eye at her. “She doesn’t work here anymore.” “I know. Paris told me. Do you know where she went? A friend of mine wanted to hire her.” Jill shrugged, eyes sliding away. “I dunno. Paris said she went to Ocala.” “You guys weren’t friends, I guess. I mean, you don’t seem to know very much.” “I know she wasn’t a very good groom.” The pot calling the kettle. “And I can assume you are?” I said. “Are you interested in moving?” She looked pleased with herself, like she had a naughty little secret. “Oh, no. Mr. Jade treats me very well.” Mr. Jade probably barely knew her name—unless she was his latest alibi, which I doubted. Men like Don Jade went for girls who were pretty and useful. Jill Morone was neither. “Good for you,” I said. “I hope you still have a job to keep after that business with Stellar.” “That wasn’t my fault.” “A horse dies like that. Suspicious circumstances. Owners get nervous, start making phone calls to other trainers . . . Business can go downhill fast.” “It was an accident.” I shrugged. “Did you see it happen?” “No. I found him, though,” she admitted with a strange spark of pride in her beady little eyes. The chance celebrity. She could be on the fringe of a dark spotlight for a week and a half. “He was just laying there with his legs straight out,” she said. “And his eyes were open. I thought he was just being lazy, so I slapped him on the butt to make him get up. Turned out he was dead.”

“God. Awful.” I looked down the row of Jade’s stalls—a dozen or more—each of them hung with a box fan outside the bars of the stall fronts. “I’m surprised you still have the fans up, considering.” She shrugged again and swiped the brush over the gray a couple more strokes. “It’s hot. What else should we do?” The horse waited for her to drift back a step, then whipped her with his tail. She hit him in the ribs with the brush. “I wouldn’t want to be the person who was careless enough to let that electrical cord hang into Stellar’s stall,” I said. “That groom would never work in this business again. I’d see to that if I had anything to do with it.” The little eyes went mean again in the doughy face. “I didn’t take care of him. Erin did. See what kind of groom she was? If I was Mr. Jade, I would have killed her.” Maybe he had, I thought as I walked away from the tent. I spotted Paris Montgomery some distance away in a schooling ring, golden ponytail bobbing, sunglasses shading her eyes as she guided her mount over a set of jumps. Poetry in motion. Don Jade stood on the sidelines, filming her with a camcorder, as a tall, skinny, red-haired, red-faced man spoke at him, gesturing angrily. He looked like a giant, irate Howdy Doody. I approached the ring a short way down the fence from the two men, my attention seemingly directed at the horses going around. “If there’s so much as a hint of something rotten in those test results, Jade, you’ll face charges,” the red-faced man said loudly, either not caring or else craving the attention of everyone in the vicinity. “This won’t just be about whether or not General Fidelity pays out. You’ve gotten away with this crap for too long as it is. It’s time someone put a stop to it.” Jade said absolutely nothing, nothing in anger, nothing in his own defense. He didn’t even pause in his filmmaking. He was a compact man with the rope-muscled forearms of a professional rider. His profile looked like something that should have been embossed on a Roman coin. He might have been thirty-five or he might have been fifty, and people would probably still be saying that about him when he was seventy. He watched his assistant go over a combination of fences with Park Lane, and frowned as the horse rapped his front ankles and took a rail down. As Paris cantered past, he looked up at her and called out a couple of corrections for her to make to get the horse to bring its hindquarters more fully under itself in preparation for takeoff. The other man seemed incredulous that his threats had not elicited a response. “You’re a real piece of work, Don. Aren’t you even going to bother to deny it?” Jade still didn’t look at him. “Why should I bother, Michael? I don’t want to be blamed for your heart attack on top of everything else.” “You smug bastard. You still think you can get people to kiss your ass and convince them it smells like a rose.” “Maybe it does, Michael,” Jade said calmly, still watching his horse. “You’ll never know the truth because you don’t want to. You don’t want me to be innocent. You enjoy hating me too much.” “I’m hardly the only one.”

“I know. I’m a national pastime again. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m innocent.” He rubbed the back of his sunburned neck, checked his watch, and sighed. “That’s enough for her, Paris,” he called, clicking the camera off. “I’ll be on the phone with Dr. Ames today,” the other man said. “If I find out you’ve got connections at that lab—” “If Ames tells you anything about Stellar, I’ll have his license,” Jade said calmly. “Not that there’s anything to tell.” “Oh, I’m sure there’s a story. There always is with you. Who were you in bed with this time?” “If I have an answer to that, it’s none of your business, Michael.” “I’m making it my business.” “You’re obsessed,” Jade said, turning toward the stables as Paris approached on Park Lane. “If you put as much energy into your work as you do into hating me, maybe you could actually make something of yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Michael, I have a business to run.” Michael’s face was a twisted, freckled mask of bitter emotion. “Not for long if I can help it.” Jade walked off toward the barn, seemingly unaffected by the exchange. His adversary stood for a moment, breathing hard, looking disappointed. Then he turned and stalked off. “Well, that was ugly,” I said. Tomas Van Zandt stood less than ten feet from me. He’d watched the exchange between Jade and the other man surreptitiously, same as I had, pretending to watch the horses in the ring. He glanced at me in a dismissive way and started to walk off. “I thought men from Belgium were supposed to be charming.” He pulled up short and looked at me again, recognition dawning slowly. “Elle! Look at you!” “I clean up good, as they say down at the trailer park.” “You’ve never been to a trailer park,” he scoffed, taking in the hat, the outfit. “Of course I have. I once drove a maid home,” I said, then nodded after the man Jade had argued with. “Who was that?” “Michael Berne. A big crybaby.” “Is he an owner or something?” “A rival.” “Ah . . . These jumper people are so dramatic,” I said. “Nothing this exciting goes on in my neck of the equestrian woods.” “Maybe I should then sell you a jumper,” Van Zandt suggested, eyeing my shopping bags, pondering my credit card limit. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Looks like a tough crowd. Besides, I don’t know any of the trainers.”

He took my arm. The courtly gentleman. “Come. I’ll introduce you to Jade.” “Swell,” I said, looking up at him out the corner of my eye. “I can buy a horse and collect the insurance. One-stop shopping.” Like flipping a switch, Van Zandt’s face went from courtly to stormy; the gray eyes as cold as the North Sea, and frighteningly hard. “Don’t say such stupid things,” he snapped. I stepped away from him. “It was a joke.” “Everything with you is a joke,” he said in disgust. “And if you can’t take one, Van Zandt,” I said, “fuck you.” I watched him struggle to put Mr. Hyde back in his box. The mood swing had come so quickly, I couldn’ t believe it hadn’t given him whiplash. He rubbed a hand across his mouth and made an impatient gesture. “Fine. It’s a joke. Ha ha,” he said, still clearly angry. He started toward the tent. “Forget it. Come.” I didn’t move. “No. Apologize.” “What?” He looked at me with disbelief. “Don’t be silly.” “Keep digging that hole, Van Zandt. I’m stupid and silly, and what else?” The muscles in his face quivered. He wanted to call me a bitch or worse. I could see it in his eyes. “Apologize.” “You shouldn’t have made the joke,” he said. “Come.” “And you should apologize,” I countered, fascinated. He seemed incapable of performing the act, and amazed that I was insisting. “You are being stubborn.” I laughed out loud. “I’m being stubborn?” “Yes. Come.” “Don’t order me like I’m a horse to be moved from one place to another,” I said. “You can apologize or you can kiss my ass.” I waited, expecting an explosion, not sure what would happen after it came. Van Zandt looked at me, then looked away, and when he turned back toward me he was smiling as if nothing had happened. “You’re a tigress, Elle! I like that. You have character.” He nodded to himself, suddenly enormously pleased. “That’s good.” “I’m so glad you approve.” He chuckled to himself and took my arm again. “Come along. I’ll introduce you to Jade. He’ll like you.” “Will I like him?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t care what I liked or didn’t like. He was fascinated that I had challenged him. I was sure he didn’t get much of that. Most of his American clients would have been wealthy women whose husbands and boyfriends had no interest in horses. Women who gave him undue credit simply because he was European and paid attention to them. Insecure women who could be easily charmed and manipulated, impressed by a little knowledge, a little Continental elegance, and a big ego with an accent. I had witnessed the phenomenon firsthand many times over the years. Women starved for attention and approval will do a lot of foolish things, including parting with large sums of money. That was the clientele that made unscrupulous dealers a hell of a lot of money. That was the clientele that made dealers like Van Zandt snicker and sneer “stupid Americans” behind the client’s back. Park Lane came out of the tent with Jill the groom in tow just as we were about to step into the aisle. Van Zandt snapped at the girl to watch where she was going, muttering “stupid cow” only half under his breath as the horse dragged her away. “D.J., why can you not find any girls with brains in their heads?” he asked loudly. Jade stood at the open door to a tack stall that was draped in green and hung with ribbons won in recent shows. He calmly took a drink of Diet Coke. “Is that some kind of riddle?” Van Zandt took a beat to get it, then laughed. “Yes—a trick question.” “Excuse me,” I said politely, “but do I look like I’m standing here with a penis?” “No,” Paris Montgomery said, coming out of the tack stall. “A couple of dicks.” Van Zandt made a growling sound in his throat, but pretended good nature. “Paris, you’re the quick one with the tongue!” She flashed the big grin. “That’s what all the fellas say.” High humor. Jade paid no attention to any of it. He was looking at me. I stared back and stuck out my hand. “Elle Stevens.” “Don Jade. You’re a friend of this character?” he asked, nodding at Van Zandt. “Don’t hold it against me. It was a chance meeting.” The corner of Jade’s mouth flicked upward. “Well, if there’s a chance, Tomas will be right there to take it.” Van Zandt pouted. “I don’t wait for opportunity to come and knock on the door. I go and invite it politely. “And this one came to steal your groom,” he added, pointing at me. Jade looked confused. “The cute one. The blonde,” Van Zandt said. “Erin,” Paris said. “The one that left,” Jade said, still looking at me. “Yes,” I said. “Apparently someone beat me to her.”

He gave no kind of reaction at all. He didn’t look away or try to express his sadness that the girl had left. Nothing. “Yeah,” Paris joked. “Elle and I are going to start a support group for people without grooms.” “What brought you looking for Erin in particular?” Jade asked. “She didn’t have very much experience.” “She did a good job, Don,” Paris said, defending the missing girl. “I’d take her back in a heartbeat.” “A friend of a friend heard your girl might be looking to make a change,” I said to Jade. “Now that the season has started, we can’t be too fussy, right?” “True enough. You have horses here, Elle?” “No, though Z. here is trying to remedy that.” “V.,” Van Zandt corrected me. “I like Z. better,” I said. “I’m going to call you Z.” He laughed. “Watch this one, Jade. She’s a tigress!” Jade hadn’t taken his eyes off me. He looked beneath the stupid hat and past the chic outfit. He wouldn’t be easily fooled. I found I didn’t want to look away from him either. Magnetism hummed from within him like electricity. I thought I could feel it touching my skin. I wondered if he had control of it; could turn it on and off, up and down. Probably. Don Jade hadn’t survived at his game without skill. I wondered if I was up to matching him. Before I had to answer that question, a more imminent danger swaggered into the picture. “God in heaven! What kind of sadist put my class at this uncivilized hour of the day?” Stellar’s owner: Monte Hughes III, known as Trey to friends and hangers-on. Palm Beach playboy. Dissolute, debauched drunk. My first big crush when I’d been young and rebellious, and had thought dissolute, debauched, drunken playboys were romantic and exciting. Sunglasses hid undoubtedly bloodshot eyes. The Don Johnson Miami Vice haircut was silver and wind-tossed. “What time is it, anyway?” he asked with a lopsided grin. “What day is it?” He was drunk or on something or both. He always had been. His blood had to have a permanent alcohol level after all the years of indulgence. Trey Hughes: the happy drunk, the life of every party. I held myself very still as he came toward us. There was little chance he would recognize me. I’d been a young thing when last he’d seen me—twenty years before—and the term “pickled brain” didn’t mean preservation of any kind. I couldn’t say he’d ever really known me, though he had flirted with me on several occasions. I remembered feeling very impressed with myself at the time, ignoring the fact that Trey Hughes flirted with every pretty young thing to cross his path. “Paris, honey, why do they do this to me?” He leaned into her and kissed her cheek. “It’s a conspiracy, Trey.”

He laughed. His voice was rough and warm from too much whiskey and too many cigarettes. “Yeah, I used to think I was paranoid, then it turned out everyone really was out to get me.” He was dressed to ride in buff breeches, a shirt and tie. His coat bag was slung over his shoulder. He looked exactly the same to me as he had twenty years ago: attractive, fifty, and self-abused. Of course, he’d been thirty at the time. Too many hours in the sun had lined and bronzed his face, and he’d gone gray at an early age—a family trait. He had seemed dashing and sophisticated to me back when. Now he just seemed pathetic. He leaned down and peered at me under the brim of my hat. “I knew there had to be a person under there. I’m Trey Hughes.” “Elle Stevens.” “Do I know you?” “No. I don’t think so.” “Thank God. I’ve always said I never forget a beautiful face. You had me thinking I might be getting Old Timer’s.” “Trey, your brain is too drenched in alcohol for it to contract anything,” Jade said dryly. Hughes didn’t so much as glance at him. “I’ve been telling people for years: I drink for medicinal purposes,” he said. “Maybe it’s finally paying off. “Never mind me, darling,” he said to me. “I never do.” His brows drew together. “Are you sure . . . ?” “I’m a new face,” I said, almost amused at my own joke. “Have you ever been to Cleveland?” “God, no! Why would I go there?” “I was sorry to hear about Stellar.” “Oh, yeah, well . . .” he rambled, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Shit happens. Right, Donnie?” The question had a barb to it. He still didn’t look at Jade. Jade shrugged. “Bad luck. That’s the horse business.” C’est la vie. C’est la mort. Such is life. Such is death. His grief was underwhelming. “God bless General Fidelity,” Hughes said, raising an imaginary glass. “Provided they cough up.” Again, there was a bite to his words, but Jade seemed unaffected. “Buy the Belgian horse,” Van Zandt said. “You’ll then say: Stellar who?” Hughes laughed. “It’s not enough I’ve given you my Mercedes. Now you’re spending my money before it even gets into my pocket, V.?” “That seems wisest, knowing you, my friend.”

“All my dough’s going into the new barn,” Hughes said. “Casa de Money Pit.” “What good is a fancy stable with no horses to put in it?” Van Zandt asked. “Let someone like Mr. Jade here come in with a truckload of clients to pay the mortgage and buy me a new speedboat,” Hughes answered. “Like half of Wellington.” True enough. A great many Wellingtonians paid a year’s mortgage with the exorbitant rents they charged for the three or four months the winter people were in town. “Trey, get on your horse,” Jade ordered. “I want you sober enough to complete the course.” “Hell, D.J., booze is the only thing that gets me around. I couldn’t do it sober.” He looked around, searching. “Erin, my peach,” he called. “Be a doll and bring my noble steed along.” “Erin doesn’t work here anymore, Trey. Remember?” Paris said, taking his coat bag and handing him his hard hat. “Oh, right. You got rid of her.” “She left.” “Huh.” He looked off into the middle distance, smiling to himself. “Seems like I just saw her.” He glanced around to see that the coast was clear and said to Paris in a stage whisper: “Honey, why couldn’t you lose the little heifer instead?” Paris rolled her eyes. “Get on your horse, Trey.” She called to the Guatemalan man in Spanish to bring the gray horse, and the entourage began to move out of the aisle. I turned to follow. Jade was still standing there, still watching me. “It was nice meeting you, Elle. I hope we see you around—whether V. sells you a horse or not.” “I’m sure you will. I’m intrigued now.” “Like a moth to a flame?” he said. “Something like that.” He shook my hand, and I felt that current pass through me again. I watched the pack of them make their way toward the schooling ring. Van Zandt walked alongside the gray, bending Hughes’ ear about the jumper in Belgium. Hughes listed to one side on the horse’s back. Paris glanced backward, looking for Jade to catch up. I started the hike back to my car, wishing I had time to go home and take a shower, to wash off the taint. There was a slick oiliness to Jade’s crowd that should have had a smell to it, the same way I’ve always believed snakes should have a smell to them. I didn’t want to have anything to do with them, but the wheels were turning now. The old familiar buzz of anxious excitement in my head. Familiar, not altogether welcome. I’d been on the sidelines a long time. I lived one day to the next, never knowing whether I would decide I ’d lived one day too many. I didn’t know if I had my head together enough to do this. And if I didn’t, Erin Seabright’s life could hang in the balance.

If Erin Seabright still had a life. You got rid of her, Trey Hughes had said. An innocent enough statement on the face of it. A figure of speech. And from a man who didn’t even know what day it was. Still, it struck a nerve. I didn’t know if I should trust my instincts, they’d been so long out of use. And look what happened the last time I trusted them, I thought. My instincts, my choice, and the consequences. All bad. But it wouldn’t be my action that did the damage this time. It would be inaction. The inaction of Erin Seabright’s mother, of the Sheriff’s Office. Someone had to do something. These people Erin Seabright had known and worked for were far too dismissive when it came to the subject of her, and far too cavalier when it came to the subject of death. 6 The address Molly had given me as Erin’s was a three-car garage some entrepreneurial sort had converted into rental property. Geographically, it was only a few miles from the Seabright home in Binks Forest. In every other respect it was in another world. Rural Loxahatchee, where the side roads are dirt and the ditches never drain; where no one had ever met a building code they wouldn’t ignore. A strange mix of run-down places, new middle-class homes, and small horse properties. A place where people nailed signs to tree trunks along the road advertising everything from “Make $$$ in Your Own Home” to “Puppies for Sale” to “Dirt Cheap Stump Grinding.” The property where Erin had lived was overgrown with tall pines and scrubby, stunted palm trees. The main house was a pseudo-Spanish ranch style, circa mid-seventies. The white stucco had gone gray with mildew. The yard consisted of dirty sand fill and anemic, sun-starved grass. An older maroon Honda sat off to one side on the driveway, filthy and dotted with hardened gobs of pine sap. It looked like it hadn’t gone anywhere in a long while. I went to the front door and rang the bell, hoping no one would be at home in the middle of the day. I would have been much happier letting myself into the garage-cum-guest house. I’d had enough human interaction to last me the day. I swatted a mosquito on my forearm and waited, then rang the bell a second time. A voice like a rusty hinge called out: “I’m around the back!” Small brown geckos darted out of my path and into the overgrown landscaping as I walked around the side of the garage. Around the back of the house was the obligatory pool. The screened cage that had been erected to keep bugs out of the patio area was shredded in sections as if by a giant paw. The door was flung wide on broken hinges. The woman who stood in the doorway was long past the age and shape anyone would care to see her in a two-piece swimming suit, but that was what she was wearing. Flab and sagging skin hung on her bent frame like a collection of half-deflated leather balloons. “What can I do for you, honey?” she asked. A New York transplant in giant Jackie-O sunglasses. She must have been pushing seventy, and appeared to have spent sixty-eight of those years sunbathing. Her skin was as brown and mottled as the skin of the lizards that lived in her yard. She was smoking a cigarette and had two hugely fat ginger cats on leashes. I was momentarily stunned to silence by the sight of her.

“I’m looking for my niece,” I said at last. “Erin Seabright. She lives here, right?” She nodded, dropped her cigarette butt, and ground it out with the toe of her aqua neoprene scuba diver ’s boot. “Erin. The pretty one. Haven’t seen her for a couple of days, darling.” “No? Neither has her family. We’re getting kind of worried.” The woman pursed her lips and waved my concern away. “Bah! She’s probably off with the boyfriend.” “Boyfriend? We didn’t know she had a boyfriend.” “What a surprise,” she said sarcastically. “A teenage girl who doesn’t tell her family anything. I thought they were on the outs, though. I heard them fighting out in the yard one night.” “When was that?” “Last week. I don’t know. Thursday or Friday maybe.” She shrugged. “I’m retired. What do I know from days? One’s the same as the next. I know I came out to walk my babies the next morning and someone had run a key down the side of Erin’s car and ruined the paint. I have a gate to keep the riffraff out, if my lazy son would come and fix it. He could care if I’m raped and killed. He thinks he inherits.” She chuckled and looked down at the ginger cats, sharing a joke telepathically. One of the cats lay on its back in the dirt with its hind legs stretched out. The other pounced at her foot, ears flat. “Bah! Cecil! Don’t bite Mommy’s toe!” she scolded. “I got an infection the last time. I thought I would die of it!” She swatted at the cat and the cat swatted back, then scuttled to the end of its leash and growled. It had to weigh twenty-five pounds. “Could I possibly take a look in her apartment?” I asked politely. “Maybe I can get an idea where she’s gone. Her mother’s worried sick.” She shrugged. “Sure. Why not? You’re a relative.” The kind of landlady we all want. Fourth Amendment? What Fourth Amendment? She tied the cat leashes to the handle of the broken screen door and dug in the fanny pack slung around her waist, coming out with a set of keys, a cigarette, and a hot pink Bic lighter. She fired up as we went around to the front of the garage, where two doors flanked windows that had been set into the plywood wall where the original garage doors had once been. “When I did the guest house I had them put in two apartments,” the woman confided. “One bath. You can get more rent that way. Semiprivate. Seven-fifty a month per.” Seven hundred and fifty dollars a month to live in a garage and share a bathroom with a stranger. “I’m Eva by the way,” she said, sliding her sunglasses on top of her head. “Eva Rosen.” “Ellen Stuart.” “You don’t look like family,” Eva said, squinting at me as we went into the apartment. “By marriage.”

The apartment was a single room with dingy vinyl flooring and an assortment of hideous thrift store furniture. An efficiency kitchen setup was tucked into one corner: a small sink full of dirty dishes crawling with ants, two burners, a microwave, and a mini-fridge. The bed was at the back, unmade. There was no other sign anyone lived there. There were no clothes, no shoes, no personal effects of any kind. “It looks like she’s moved out,” I said. “You didn’t see her packing stuff in her car?” Eva turned around in the middle of the room, mouth agape, cigarette stuck to her lower lip and bobbing precariously. “No! No one said anything to me about moving out. And left me dirty dishes, no less! You give people a nice place and this is how they treat you!” “Have you seen anyone else coming in and out in the past few days?” “No. Just that other one. The chubby one.” “Jill Morone?” “She’s a mean one. Those beady little eyes. I’d never leave my babies with that one.” “She lives in the other half?” “Someone is going to have to answer to me,” Eva muttered. “They rented for the season. They have to pay.” “Who pays the rent?” “The checks are from Jade Farms. That nice girl, Paris, always brings the check herself. She’s so nice. I can’t believe she would let this happen.” Puffing angrily on the cigarette, she went to the sink and turned the water on. The pipes kicked and spat. When the water finally ran, it looked brown. “People can’t just move out in the middle of the night and think they don’t have to pay. My no-good son is good for one thing: he’s a bail bondsman. He knows people.” I followed as Eva opened a door and went through the shared bath to Jill Morone’s side of the garage. The floor was piled with wet towels, the walls of the shower stall orange and black with rust and mildew. “This one’s still here,” Eva muttered. “The little pig. Look at this mess.” The place looked like it had been tossed, but I suspected that was simply the girl’s mode of housekeeping. Clothes and magazines were strewn everywhere. An ashtray heaped with butts sat on the coffee table. I spotted the issue of Sidelines with my photo in it lying on the floor, and surreptitiously toed it under the sofa. “I wouldn’t let dogs live like this,” Eva Rosen muttered, freely pawing through Jill Morone’s things. “Where does she get all this? Clothes from Bloomingdale’s. The tags still on. I bet she steals. She’s the type.” I didn’t argue. I browsed through the tangled mess of jewelry on the girl’s dresser, wondering if any of it might have walked over from next door. An even trade for a stack of dirty dishes. “Were you around here Sunday, Mrs. Rosen?”

“It’s Miz. I was here all day.” “What about Sunday night?” “Sunday nights I go with my friend Sid to A-1 Thai. I had the chicken curry. So spicy! I had a heartburn for days.” “What time did you get home?” “That would be none of your business.” “Please, Ms. Rosen, it could be very important. Erin is missing.” She pretended to be stubborn for a moment, then tipped her head on one side and shrugged. “Sid is a special friend, if you know what I mean. I didn’t get home until Monday. Noon, maybe.” Ample time for Erin to have packed up her own stuff, or for someone to have done it for her. “She’s run off with a boy, that’s what,” Eva said, finishing off her smoke and adding it to the heap in the ashtray. “No offense to your family, but she had that look with the tight shirts and the bare belly button.” This from a seventy-year-old in a bikini. “What can you tell me about her boyfriend?” I asked. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?” “Sixty-seven years I lived in Queens. I should know from cars?” I tried to breathe slowly. Another of my shortcomings as a cop: lack of diplomacy with the general public. “Color? Size? Anything I could give to the police?” “Black, maybe. Or dark blue. I only saw it the one time, and it was night.” “What about the boy? What does he look like?” “What’s with the third degree?” she asked, pretending indignation. “I’m on Law and Order now? You’ re Miss District Attorney or something? Is Sam Waterston going to come out of the closet now?” “I’m just concerned about my niece, Ms. Rosen. I’m afraid something might have happened to her. She didn’t tell anyone she was moving. Her family doesn’t know anything about this boyfriend. How can we be sure she went with him willingly?” Eva thought about that, her eyes brightening for a second at the possibility of intrigue, then she waved a hand, pretending indifference. “I didn’t get a good look. I heard arguing, I looked through the blinds, I saw the back of a head.” “Could you tell if he was tall or short? Younger or older?” She shrugged. “He was average. His back was to me.” “Have you ever met the man Erin worked for?” I asked. “What man? I thought she worked for Paris.” “Don Jade. Middle-aged, on the slight side, very good-looking.” “Don’t know him. I only know Paris. She’s such a nice person. Always takes the time to ask after my

babies. I have to think she doesn’t know Erin ran off, or she would have spoken to me about it.” “I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “Did you notice anything at all about the boyfriend, Ms. Rosen? Anything.” Eva Rosen shook her head. “I’m sorry, darling. I would help if I could. I’m a mother too, you know. Do you have children of your own?” she asked, looking suspiciously at my haircut. “No, I don’t.” “They drive you crazy with worry. And then there’s the disappointment. It’s a trial.” “Did you ever hear Erin call the boyfriend by name?” I asked. She searched her memory. “Maybe. I might have heard her mention a name that night. Yes. It was something like it was from a soap opera. Brad? Tad?” “Chad?” “That’s it.” Chad Seabright.

F orbidden love. I wondered if that Shakespearean story line had contributed to Erin’s defection from the Seabright home. I couldn’t imagine Bruce Seabright would have approved of his son and his stepdaughter dating, regardless of the fact they weren’t blood relatives. And if Bruce didn’t like it, Krystal wouldn’t like it. I wondered why Molly hadn’t told me about Erin and Chad, why she hadn’t told me about Chad at all. Maybe she believed I would disapprove too. If that was the case, she overestimated me. I didn’t care enough to have an opinion on her sister’s morality. My only interest in Erin’s love life was as motive in her disappearance. I drove back to the Seabright home. Chad the Invalid was in the driveway, washing his black Toyota pickup. The all-American boy in khakis and a white T-shirt. He glanced up at me through a pair of mirrored Oakley shades as he rinsed the soap off his wheel rims. “Nice ride,” I said as I walked up the driveway. “Eva Rosen told me about it.” “Who’s Eva Rosen?” “Erin’s landlady. She doesn’t miss a trick, old Eva.” Chad stood up, the hose and the wheels forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “I didn’t get your name.” “Elena Estes. I’m looking for your stepsister.” “Like I told you this morning, Ms. Estes: I haven’t seen her.” “That’s funny, because Eva tells me you were in her yard just the other night. She seems to know some pretty interesting things about you,” I said. “About you and Erin.” He shrugged and shook his head, then added a boyish grin to complete the whole Matt Damon look. “I’

m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Come on, Chad,” I cajoled. “I’ve been around the block a few times. It doesn’t matter to me if you and Erin are involved. A boy fucking his stepsister isn’t going to make me turn a hair.” He frowned at the accusation. “That’s why Erin left the house, isn’t it?” I said. “Your father wouldn’t put up with the two of you doing it under his nose.” “We’re not involved,” he insisted. “Eva tells me the two of you had a fight the other night in her driveway. What happened, Chad? Did Erin dump you? Let me guess: you weren’t nearly so interesting as a boyfriend once her Mommy and Stepdaddy weren’t watching anymore.” He looked away from me, trying to decide how to play this. Respond with the truth, with outrage, stick with denial, stay calm? He had chosen the latter tack to start, but my bluntness was beginning to irritate him. “I’m not sure who you are, ma’am,” he said, still trying to hang on to the false good humor, “but you’re crazy.” I found a dry patch along the front fender of the pickup, leaned back against it, and crossed my arms. “Who’d she dump you for, Chad? An older man? Her boss, maybe?” “I don’t know who Erin is seeing,” he said curtly. “And I don’t care.” He dumped the wash water on the driveway and carried the bucket into the garage. I followed. “Okay. Maybe I’m way off base. Maybe the fight was about something else altogether,” I offered. “If that hangover you had this morning is anything to go by, you’re a guy who likes to party. From what I’ve heard, Erin might like a wild time. And there she is at the equestrian center, a whole new world of drug dealers and users. Maybe that’s what you fought about in Eva Rosen’s driveway: drugs.” Chad slammed the bucket onto a shelf where car care products were arranged like a display at Pep Boys. “You’re way out of line, lady.” “She try to cut you out of a deal, Chad? Is that why you came back later and keyed her car?” “What’s with you?” he demanded. “Why are you here? Do you have a warrant or something?” I was standing too close to him. He wanted to back away. “I don’t need a warrant, Chad,” I said quietly, my eyes steady on his. “I’m not that kind of a cop.” He didn’t know quite what that meant, but it made him nervous. He put his hands on his hips, shuffled his feet, crossed his arms over his chest, looked out at the street. “Where’s Erin?” I asked. “I told you, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.” “Since when? Since Friday? The night you fought with her? The night you keyed her car?” “I don’t know anything about that. Talk to that fat cow she works with,” he said. “Jill Moron. She’s nuts.

Ask her where Erin is. She probably killed her and ate her.” “How do you know Jill Morone?” I asked. “How would you know anything about the people Erin works with if you haven’t been in touch with Erin?” He went still and looked out the door. Gotcha. It was nice to know I still had the touch. “What did you fight about Friday night, Chad?” I asked again, then waited patiently while he struggled to decide on an answer. “I dumped her,” he said, turning toward the shelves again. He selected a white cotton towel from a stack of white cotton towels, all neatly folded. “I don’t need the trouble.” “Uh-huh. Bullshit. You don’t dump a girl, then come back and key her car. There’s no point if you’re not the dumpee.” “I didn’t key her car!” “I don’t believe you.” “Well, that’s your problem, not mine.” “I don’t see you dumping her, Chad. Erin might have been off the hook with Krystal and Bruce because she moved out, but you could still pull your old man’s chain by staying involved with her.” “You don’t know anything about my family.” “Don’t I?” I looked around the garage with its place for everything and everything in its place. “Your old man is a tight-ass control freak. His way is the only way. His opinion is the only opinion. Everyone else in the house is there to serve his needs and validate his superiority. How am I doing so far?” Chad went to his truck in a huff and started trying to towel off the water spots that had already dried on the finish. “He’ll ride you if you don’t get those spots out, won’t he, Chad?” I said, following him around the truck. “Can’t have spots on the cars. What would the neighbors think? And imagine if they found out about you and Erin. What a disgrace, doing it with your stepsister. It’s practically incest. You really found Dad’s hot button, didn’t you?” “Lady, you’re pissing me off.” I didn’t tell him that was the idea. I followed him around the hood to the other side of the truck. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave.” “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know where Erin is, and I don’t give a shit.” “I bet you’ll give a shit when you’ve got a cop tailing you. Because maybe there’s a drug angle to Erin’s disappearance. I can tell you from experience, there are few things a narc likes better than getting his hooks into a kid with money and connections. And how about when your father gets questioned about your involvement? I guess you might enjoy that—” He turned on me, hands up, as if I was holding him at gunpoint. “All right! All right. Jesus, you’re something, lady,” he said, shaking his head.

I waited. “All right,” he said again, letting out a sigh. “Erin and I used to be together. I thought it meant something, but it didn’t mean anything to her. She dumped me. That’s it. That’s the whole story. There’s nothing to do with drugs or deals or anything else. That’s it. She dumped me.” He shrugged and his arms fell back to his sides, limp, the admission taking all the starch out of him. The male ego is a fragile thing at seventeen or seventy. “Did she give you a reason?” I asked quietly. “I wouldn’t ask,” I added as his tension level came back up. “But something has happened where Erin was working, and now she’s nowhere to be found.” “Is she in trouble?” “I don’t know.” He thought about that for a minute. “She said there was someone else. ‘A man,’ she said. Like I’m twelve or something.” He shook his head in disgust. “Did she say who?” “I didn’t ask. I mean, why should I care? I know she had a thing for her boss, but he’s like fifty or something . . .” “Did she tell you she was going anywhere? Did she say anything about changing jobs or moving?” He shook his head. “She never said anything about going to Ocala?” “Ocala? Why would she go there?” “Her boss says she quit her job and moved to Ocala to take another.” “That’s news to me,” he said. “No. She wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t make any sense.” “Thanks for the info.” I pulled a card from my pocket, my phone number scribbled on it. “If you hear from her, would you call this number and leave a message?” Chad took the card and stared at it. I went back to my car and sat at the end of the Seabright driveway for a moment. I looked around the neighborhood. Quiet, lovely, expensive; golfers lining up a tee shot beyond the backyard. The American dream. I thought about the Seabrights. Well-off, successful; neurotic, contentious, seething with secret resentments. The American dream in a fun house mirror.

I parked on the street in front of the school, the soccer moms and me. I would have felt less out of place in a chorus line. Kids began to pour out the doors and head for the buses or the car-pool line. There was no sign of Krystal Seabright, not that I had expected to see her. It seemed quite clear to me that Molly was just a small person who happened to live in the same house as Krystal. Molly had turned

out the way she had turned out by luck or self-preservation or watching A&E. She had probably watched all the drama and rebellion and parental conflict of Erin’s life, and consciously turned in the other direction in order to win approval. Funny, I thought, Molly Seabright was probably exactly who my little sister would have been, had I had a little sister. My parents had adopted me and called it quits. I was more than enough to handle. Too bad for them. The child learning from my mistakes might have been exactly the daughter they had wanted in the first place. I got out of the car as I saw Molly come out of the school. She didn’t spot me right away. She walked with her head down, pulling her little black case behind her. Though she was surrounded by other children, she seemed alone, deep in thought. I called out to her as she turned and started down the sidewalk. When she saw me, her face brightened with a carefully tempered expectation. “Did you find her already?” she asked. “No, not yet. I’ve spent the day asking a lot of questions. She may be in Ocala,” I said. Molly shook her head. “She wouldn’t have moved without telling me, without calling me.” “Erin tells you everything?” I asked, opening the car door for her. I glanced around to see if anyone had me pegged as a child molester. No one was paying any attention at all. “Yes.” I went around to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel, and started the engine. “Did she tell you she and Chad were involved with each other?” Her gaze glanced off of mine and she seemed to shrink a little in the seat. “Why didn’t you tell me about Chad?” “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I would rather not acknowledge Chad’s existence.” Or that Erin had shifted from sister to sexual being, I thought as I drove back toward the cul-de-sac where Molly lived. Erin had been her idol and protector. If Erin abandoned her, then Molly was all alone in the land of dysfunctional Seabrights. “Chad was at Erin’s apartment Friday night,” I said. “They had an argument. Do you know anything about that?” Molly shrugged. “Maybe they broke up.” “Why would you think that? Was Erin interested in someone else?” “She had a crush on her boss, but he’s too old for her.” That was a matter of opinion. From what I had learned about Erin so far, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out she had her sights set on a man old enough to be her father. And if past history was anything to go by, Jade wouldn’t draw that line for her. “Anyone else?” “I don’t know,” Molly said irritably. “Erin liked flirting with guys. I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t want to hear about it.”

“Molly, this is very important,” I said as I pulled to the curb at the end of her street. “When I ask you questions about Erin, or about anything, anyone, you have to tell me the absolute truth as you know it. No glossing over details you don’t like. Got it?” She frowned, but nodded. “You have to trust me,” I said, and a bolt of white-cold fear ran through me. Molly looked at me in that steady, too-wise way and said, “I already told you I do.” This time I didn’t ask her why. 7 I stand at the side of the Golam brothers’ trailer. I’ve been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that’s not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I’ve got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I’ve worked this case three months. I know what I’m doing. I know I’m right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff. He’s stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn’t know his ass. He didn’t listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam’s four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they’ll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road. Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now . . . They think they know me. I key the button on my radio. “This is stupid. They’re going to break for the truck. I’m going in.” “Goddammit, Estes—” I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It’s my case. It’s my bust. I know what I ’m doing. I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers’ customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. “Hey, Billy, it’s Elle! I need some.” Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking—crystal meth. He’s breathing hard. He’s got a gun in his hand. Shit. The front door explodes inward. One of the girls screams. Buddy Golam shouts: “Cops!”

Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath. He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him. The image faded slowly from my brain, and the building I had worked out of slowly came into focus before me. The Palm Beach County Criminal Justice Complex is tucked away on a patch of landscaped acres off Gun Club Road near Lake Lytal Park. The complex houses the Sheriff’s Office, the medical examiner’s offices, the morgue, the county courts, and the jail. One-stop shopping for lawbreakers and their victims. I sat in the parking lot looking at the building that held the Sheriff’s Office, feeling sick in my stomach. I hadn’t been through those doors in a long time. There was a part of me that believed everyone in the building would recognize me on sight and that all of them nursed a virulent hatred of me. Logically, I knew that wasn’t true. Probably only half of them would know and hate me. The clock was ticking toward change of shift. If I didn’t catch James Landry now, it would have to wait until the next day. I wanted Erin Seabright’s name in his mind, a mental thorn to rub at all night. My legs felt weak as I walked toward the doors. Jail inmates in dark gray uniforms were working on the landscaping, overseen by a black guard in camo pants and a painted-on black T-shirt, a trooper’s hat perched on his head. He exchanged bullshit with a couple of cops standing on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. None of them looked at me. I went inside to the desk. No one called out my name or rushed to assault me. Maybe it was the haircut. The receptionist behind the bulletproof glass was a round-faced young woman with three-inch purple lacquered fingernails and a Medusa’s head of intertwined black braids. “I need to speak with Detective Landry,” I said. “What is this regarding, ma’am?” “A missing persons case.” “Your name?” “Elena Estes.” There was no flicker of recognition. No scream of outrage. I didn’t know her, she didn’t know me. She called Landry on the phone and told me to wait in the chairs. I stood with my arms crossed and stared at the door to the stairwell, barely breathing. It seemed an hour before the heavy gray door opened. “Ms. Estes?” Landry held the door back by way of invitation. He was a compact, athletic-looking man, mid-forties, with a meticulous quality about him. There was still starch in his shirt at nearly four P.M. His hair was cropped almost military-short; black, heavily salted with gray. He had a stare like an eagle’s: penetrating and slightly disdainful, I thought. Or perhaps that was my paranoia showing. I had known several of the seventeen detectives in Robbery/ Homicide, the major case squad, but I hadn’t known Landry. Because of the nature of their work,

narcotics detectives usually keep—or are kept—to themselves, their paths crossing with the other detectives only over dead bodies. We went up the stairs to the second floor without speaking. There was no one behind the glass in the small vestibule that led to the Robbery/Homicide squad room. Landry let us in with a card key. Steel desks grouped together made islands across the expanse of the room. Most of the desks were empty. I recognized no one. The gazes that flicked my way were hooded, flat, and cold. Cop eyes. The look is always the same, regardless of agency, regardless of geography. The look of people who trust no one and suspect everyone of something. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. I knew only that some of the gazes lingered too long. I took the seat Landry indicated beside his desk. He smoothed a hand over his tie as he settled into his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. He clicked his computer on and settled a pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I’m Detective Landry,” he said, typing. “I’ll be taking your statement. I understand you want to report someone missing.” “She’s already been reported missing. Erin Seabright. Her sister spoke with you a couple of days ago. Molly Seabright. She told me you were rude and condescending and of no help to her.” Another chapter from The Elena Estes Guide to Winning Friends and Influencing People. Landry pulled his glasses off and gave me the stare again. “The kid? She’s twelve.” “Does that somehow change the fact that her sister is missing?” “We don’t take complaints from children. I spoke on the phone with the mother. She didn’t want to file. She says the daughter isn’t missing.” “Maybe she killed the girl,” I said. “You’re not going to look for her because her murderer doesn’t want to file a complaint?” His brows pulled together. “You have reason to think the mother killed her?” “No. I don’t think that at all. I’m saying you didn’t know differently and you blew the girl off.” “So you came here to pick a fight with me?” he said, incredulous. “Are you mentally ill? What have you got to do with these people? Are they relatives of yours?” “No. Molly is a friend.” “The twelve-year-old.” “She asked me to help her. I happen to believe she has good reason to think her sister is missing.” “Why is that?” “Because her sister is missing. She hasn’t been seen since Sunday.” I filled him in on the Don Jade saga and the death of Stellar. Landry was angry with me. Impatience hummed in the air around him. He didn’t like that I’d done his job for him, even if he didn’t believe he’d had a job to do. Cops can be territorial that way.

“You think something happened to this girl because of a dead horse.” He said it as if it were the most ludicrous theory he’d ever heard. “People are killed for their shoes,” I said. “People are killed for turning down the wrong street. This dead horse by himself is worth a quarter of a million dollars in insurance money, and the sale of his replacement to his owner is probably worth nearly that much in sales commissions alone. I don’t find it hard to believe someone would resort to violence for that kind of money, do you?” “And the trainer says the girl quit her job and moved to Ocala.” “The trainer who probably had the horse killed and stands to profit handsomely by the next deal.” “Do you know that she didn’t move to Ocala?” Landry asked. “No. But it seems unlikely.” “Have you been to her apartment? Were there signs of a struggle?” “I’ve been to her apartment. There’s nothing there.” “Nothing. As if she moved out?” he suggested. “Maybe. But we won’t know if someone doesn’t look for her. You could put a call in to Ocala.” “Or you could drive up there and look for her.” “Or you could call the local PD or SO or whatever they have in Ocala.” “And tell them what? That this girl might have moved up there and taken a job? She’s eighteen. She can do whatever the hell she wants.” “Give them a heads-up on her car.” “Why? Has it been stolen?” I stood up. I was angrier than he was and glad he couldn’t see it on my face. “Okay, Landry. You don’t give a shit this girl has vanished, couldn’t care less that she might be dead, and you have no interest in a six-figure fraud case. What am I paying taxes for?” “Insurance fraud isn’t insurance fraud until the insurance company says so. And the girl isn’t missing if she ’s eighteen and willingly moved elsewhere—unless her family reports her missing.” “Her family did report her missing. Her sister reported it. That fact aside, you’re saying if she’s estranged from her family and something happens to her, only she could report her own disappearance. That’s absurd. You’re going to let God-knows-what happen to this girl because her mother is a self-absorbed airhead who’s just happy to be rid of her. “I guess I can see that,” I said sarcastically. “After all, it might take an hour or two out of your busy day investigating purse snatchings to make a couple of phone calls, do some background checks, ask a few questions—” Landry stood now too. His face was growing red beneath his tan. Everyone in the office was watching us. In my peripheral vision I could see one of the sergeants had come out of his office to watch. In the background a phone rang unanswered.

“Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Estes?” “I’ve done your job, Landry. It’s not that hard.” “Yeah? Well, I don’t see you working here now. Why is that?” The phone stopped ringing. The silence in the room was the silence of outer space: absolute. Half a dozen valid answers trailed through my head. I gave none of them. Only one answer counted—to the people in this room and to me. I didn’t work here anymore because I’d gotten one of our own—one of their own—killed. Nothing trumped that. Finally, I nodded. “All right. You win,” I said quietly. “Cheap Shot of the Day Award goes to Landry. I figured you’d be a big asshole, and I was right. But Erin Seabright is missing, and someone has to care about that. If it has to be me, so be it. If that girl ends up dead because I couldn’t find her quickly enough and you could have, that one will be on your head, Landry.” “Is there a problem here?” the sergeant asked, coming over. “Oh, yeah,” he said, stopping in front of me. “I’m looking at it. You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming into this building, Estes.” “Sorry. I didn’t realize crime fighting had become by invitation only. Mine must have gotten lost in the mail.” The path to the door seemed to elongate as I walked away. My legs felt like columns of water. My hands were shaking. I went out of the squad room, down the hall, and into the ladies’ room, where I slumped over a toilet and vomited. A handful of moments passed as I leaned against the wall of the stall, closed my eyes, and held my face in my hands. I was hot, sweating, breathing hard. Exhausted. But I was still alive, literally and metaphorically. I had bearded the lions in their den and survived. I probably should have been proud of myself. I pushed myself to my feet, went and washed my face and rinsed my mouth with tap water. I tried to concentrate on my small victory. James Landry wouldn’t be able to put Erin Seabright so easily out of his mind tonight, if for no other reason than that I had challenged him. If confronting him resulted in one phone call that turned up one lead, it would have been worth the effort and what it had cost me emotionally. As I walked out to my car, I wondered dimly if I was developing a sense of purpose. It had been so long since I’d had one, I couldn’t be sure. I got into the BMW and waited. Just when I was ready to decide Landry had made his exit while I was hugging the porcelain life preserver, he came out of the building, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a sport coat folded over one arm. I watched him get into a silver Pontiac Grand Am and roll out of the parking lot. I pulled into traffic two cars behind him, wanting to know who I was dealing with. Did he go straight home to a wife and kids? Could I play that parental angle on him? He hadn’t been wearing a ring. He drove straight to a cop bar on Military Trail. Disappointingly predictable. I didn’t follow him inside, knowing my reception would probably be openly hostile. This was where the rank and file blew off steam, complained about their superiors, complained about civilians, complained about their ex-spouses. Landry would complain about me. That was all right. I didn’t care what James Landry thought of me . . . as long as thinking of me made him think of Erin Seabright too.

8 Unlike me, Sean still enjoyed embarrassing his proper Palm Beach family by occasionally showing up at the charity balls that are the life of Palm Beach society during the winter season. The balls are lavish, over-the-top affairs that cost nearly as much to put on as they raise for their various causes. The net for the charity can be shockingly low, considering the gross, but a good time will be had in the process. If one goes for that sort of thing—designer gowns, designer jewels, the latest in cosmetic surgery, the posturing and the catty mind games of the ridiculously rich. Despite having been raised in that world, I had never had the patience for it. I found Sean in his closet—which is larger than the average person’s bedroom—in an Armani tuxedo, tying his bow tie. “What’s the disease du jour?” I asked. “It starts with a P.” “Pinkeye?” “Parkinson’s. That’s a hot one with the celebs these days. This will be a younger crowd than some of the more traditional diseases.” He slipped his tux jacket on and admired himself in the three-way mirror. I leaned against the marble-topped center island and watched him primp. “One of these years they’re going to run out of afflictions.” “I’ve threatened my mother I’m going to put on a ball for genital herpes,” Sean said. “God knows half the population of Palm Beach could benefit.” “And the other half would catch it at the after-party parties. Want to be my date?” “To catch herpes?” “To the ball, Cinderella. Your parents are sure to be there. Double your scandal, double your fun.” The idea of seeing my mother and father was less appealing than going into the Sheriff’s Offices had been. At least facing Landry had the potential for something good to come of it. My mother had come to see me in the hospital a couple of times. The maternal duty of a woman without a maternal bone in her body. She had pushed to adopt a child for reasons that had nothing to do with a love of children. I had been an accessory to her life, like a handbag or a lapdog. A lapdog from the pound, my heritage was called into question by my father every time I stepped out of line—which was often. He had resented my intrusion on his life. I was a constant reminder of his inability to sire children of his own. My resentment of his feelings had only served to fuel the fires of my rebellion. I hadn’t spoken to my father in over a decade. He had disowned me when I’d left college to become a common cop. An affront to him. A slap in his face. True. And a flimsy excuse to end a relationship that should have been unbreakable. He and I had both seized on it. “Gee, sorry,” I said, spreading my arms wide. “I’m not dressed for it.” Sean took in the old jeans and black turtleneck with a critical eye. “What happened to our fashion plate of the morning?”

“She had a very long day of pissing people off.” “Is that a good thing?” “We’ll see. Squeeze enough pimples, one of them is bound to burst.” “How folksy.” “Did Van Zandt come by?” He rolled his eyes. “Honey, people like Tomas Van Zandt are the reason I live behind gates. If he came by, I didn’t hear about it.” “I guess he’s too busy trying to sweet-talk Trey Hughes into spending a few million bucks on horses.” “He’ll need them. Have you seen that barn he’s building? The Taj Mahal of Wellington.” “I heard something about it.” “Fifty box stalls with crown molding, for God’s sake. Four groom’s apartments upstairs. Covered arena. Big jumping field.” “Where is it?” “Ten acres of prime real estate in that new development next to Grand Prix Village: Fairfields.” The name gave me a shock. “Fairfields?” “Yes,” he said, adjusting his French cuffs and checking himself out in the mirror again. “It’s going to be a great big gaudy monstrosity that will make his trainer the envy of every jumper jockey on the East Coast. I have to go, darling.” “Wait. A place like you’re saying will cost the earth.” “And the moon and the stars.” “Can Trey really live that large off his trust fund?” “He doesn’t have to. His mother left nearly the entire Hughes estate to him.” “Sallie Hughes died?” “Last year. Fell down the stairs in her home and fractured her skull. So the story goes. You really ought to keep up with the old neighborhood, El,” he scolded. Then he kissed my cheek and left.

F airfields. Bruce Seabright had just that morning been on his way to close a deal at Fairfields. I don’t like or trust coincidence. I don’t believe coincidence is an accidental thing. In college I had once attended a lecture by a well-known New Age guru who believed all life at its most basic molecular structure is energy. Everything we do, every thought we have, every emotion we experience, can be broken down to pure energy. Our lives are energy, driving, seeking, running, colliding with the energy of the other people in our small worlds. Energy attracts energy, intent becomes a force of nature, and there is no such thing as coincidence.

When I feel like believing strongly in my theory, I then realize I have to accept that nothing in life can truly be random or accidental. And then I decide I would be better off believing in nothing. Considering the people involved in Erin Seabright’s life, whatever was going on was not positive. Her mother seemed not to have known who Erin was working for, and I could believe that was true. Krystal wouldn’t have cared if Erin had been working for the devil himself, so long as her little world wasn’t rocked because of it. She probably preferred not to think Erin was her daughter at all. But what about Bruce Seabright? Did he know Trey Hughes? If he knew Hughes, did he then also know Jade? And if he knew either or both of them, how did Erin fit into that picture? Say Bruce wanted Erin out of his house because of her involvement with Chad. If he knew Hughes—and via Hughes had a connection to Don Jade—he might have gotten her set up with Jade as a means to that end. The more important question was whether or not Bruce Seabright cared about what happened to Erin once she was out of his house. And if he cared, would his caring be a positive or a negative thing? What if he wanted her gone permanently? These were the thoughts and questions that filled my evening. I paced the guest house, chewing the stubs of my fingernails. Quiet, smooth jazz seeped out of the stereo speakers in the background, a moody sound track to the scenarios playing through my head. I picked up the phone once and dialed Erin’s cell phone number, getting an automated voice telling me the customer’s mailbox was full. If she had simply moved herself to Ocala, why wouldn’t she have picked up her messages by now? Why wouldn’t she have called Molly? I didn’t want to waste a day going to Ocala on what my gut told me would be a fool’s errand. In the morning I would call a PI up there and give him the pertinent information, along with instructions. If Erin was working at the Ocala show grounds, I would know it in a day, two at the most. I would have the PI page her from the show office, say that she had an important phone call. If someone answered the page, he could verify whether or not it was, in fact, Erin Seabright. A simple plan. Landry could have done the same utilizing local law enforcement. Asshole. I hoped he was lying awake. It was after midnight. Sleep was nowhere in sight for me. I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years— partly because of my state of mind, partly because of the low-level chronic pain the accident had left me with. I didn’t wonder what the lack of sleep was doing to my body or to my mind, for that matter. I didn’ t care. I’d gotten used to it. At least tonight I wasn’t dwelling on thoughts of the mistakes I’d made or how I should pay for those mistakes. I grabbed a jacket and left the house. The night was cool, a storm blowing across the Everglades toward Wellington. Lightning backlit the clouds to the far west. I drove down Pierson, past the truck entrance to the Equestrian Club, past the extravagant stables of Grand Prix Village, made a turn and found the stone entrance gates of Fairfields. A sign showed the layout of the development in eight parcels ranging in size from five to ten acres. Three parcels were marked “Sold.” Gracious beauty for exclusive equestrian facilities was promised, and a number was listed for Gryphon Development, Inc. The stone columns were up, and a guardhouse had been constructed, but the iron gates had yet to be installed. I followed the winding drive, my headlights illuminating weeds and scrub. Security lights glowed white at two building sites. Even in the dead of night I had no trouble identifying which of the two properties belonged to Trey Hughes. The stable was up. Its silhouette resembled a big Kmart. A huge, two-story rectangle that ran parallel to

the road, flaunting its size. It stood back maybe thirty yards from the chain-link construction fence. The gate was chained and padlocked. I pulled into the drive as far as the gate allowed and sat there trying to take in as much as I could. My headlights bathed a piece of earth-moving equipment, and revealed torn ground and mounded piles of dirt. Beyond the stable on the near end I could just make out what must have been the construction boss’ s office trailer. In front of the stables, a large sign advertised the construction company, proud to be building Lucky Dog Farm. I could only ballpark the cost of the place. Ten acres this near the show grounds was worth a fortune with nothing on it. A facility the likes of what Trey Hughes was putting up had to go two, maybe three million just for the buildings. And that would be for horse facilities alone. Like Grand Prix Village, there would be no stately homes in Fairfields. The owners of these stables had posh homes at the Polo Club or on the island or both. The Hughes family had a beachfront estate on Blossom Way, near the exclusive Palm Beach Bath and Tennis Club. Trey himself had had a mansion in the Polo Club when I’d last known of him. Now he had it all, thanks to Sallie Hughes taking a wrong step on the stair. Lucky dog, indeed. Rid of the woman Trey used to call The Dominatriarch, and unfettered access to an obscene fortune in one simple fall. That idea writhed in the back of my mind like a snake in the shadows. After speaking with Sean, I had gone online to find any stories on Sallie Hughes’ death, and found nothing but her obituary. No story of any investigation. Of course, there wouldn’t be a story. How unseemly to allow such things in the papers, my mother would have said. The newspaper on the island was for social news and announcements. Not for such dirty business as death and police investigations. The newspaper my mother read was printed on glossy stock with ink that wouldn’t rub off on the reader’s hands. Clean in fact and in content. The Post—printed in West Palm Beach (where the common folk live)—reported Sallie Hughes had died in her home at the age of eighty-two. However it had happened, Trey Hughes was now a very fat golden goose. There were sure to be a few people willing to do him a little favor like getting rid of a jumper with more heart than talent. It didn’t matter how much money Trey already had. Another quarter of a million was always welcome. Don Jade had to be at the head of that list of helpful hopefuls. What a sweet deal for Jade, or any trainer: walking into a barn like this one, the kind of place that would give him legitimacy again and draw still more clients with bottomless pockets. I wondered about the tension I’d sensed between the two men that morning. Trey Hughes could now afford to put nearly any big-name trainer he wanted in his stable. Why had he gone with Don Jade—a man whose reputation was based more on scandal than on success. A man with a reputation for doing bad deeds and getting away with them . . . Whatever had put him there, Don Jade was in the catbird seat. That had to make him the envy of a lot of bitterly jealous people. Michael Berne came to mind. I had recognized the name as soon as Van Zandt had blabbed it that morning. Berne had been mentioned in Stellar’s obituary in the online magazine Horses Daily. He’d had the ride on Stellar before Jade, with only limited success in the showring. Then Jade got the horse. Got the horse, got the owner, got the Taj Mahal of Wellington. No wonder Berne was angry. He hadn’t just lost a paycheck when Stellar had been led out of his barn. He’d lost a big-time meal ticket.

He wasn’t just Jade’s rival, as Van Zandt had said, he was an enemy. An enemy could be a valuable source of information.

I drove back to the equestrian center, wanting time to prowl without having to worry about any of Jade’s crowd seeing me. I wanted to find Berne’s stable. If I could get a phone number off his stalls, I would be able to set up a meeting somewhere we weren’t likely to be caught by any Jade confederates. The guard came out of the gatehouse looking bored and unhappy. “It is very late,” he said in heavily accented English. I heaved a sigh. “Tell me about it. We’ve got a horse with colic. I drew the short straw.” He frowned at me as if he suspected I might have just insulted him. “A sick horse,” I explained. “I have night watch, like you.” “Oh, yes.” He nodded then. “I understand. I am very sorry to hear. Good luck with that, miss.” “Thank you.” He didn’t bother to ask my name or what barn number this phantom horse was in. I had a parking pass and a believable story. That was enough. I parked back in The Meadows, not wanting anyone’s attention on my car. With my Maglite in hand and my gun in the back of my jeans, I walked the aisles of the tent barns, looking for Michael Berne’s name, hoping not to run afoul of someone’s groom or a roving security guard. The storm was rolling closer. The wind was coming up, making tent tops billow and flap, making horses nervous. I kept my light low, looking at stall cards and emergency numbers, and still managed to spook some horses, sending them spinning around their small quarters, eyes rolling white. Others nickered at me, hoping for something to eat. I cut the light as I walked the dogleg from The Meadows to the next set of tents. If I was lucky, Berne’s horses were stabled relatively near Jade’s. Their run-in had taken place at the schooling ring nearest Jade ’s barn. Maybe that was Berne’s schooling area too. If I was unlucky, Berne had gone out of his way to pick a fight with Jade, and I would have to walk forty stables before I found what I wanted. A gust swept in from the west, shaking the trees. Thunder rumbled overhead. I ducked into tent twenty-two and started checking names. A quarter of the way down the first row I stopped and listened. The same sounds as in the other tents: horses moving, nickering, kicking against the pipes that framed the stalls. Only these sounds weren’t coming from the horses around me. The disturbance was a couple of rows over. The creak and groan of a stall door opening. The shuffling sound of hooves moving through deep bedding. A horse whinnied loudly. The horse in the stall nearest me rushed its door and whinnied back. I flicked the light up at it to see a bay, head high, ears pricked, white-rimmed eyes focused past me, past the horse across the aisle. The horse whinnied again and spun around. Another down the row followed suit.

I doused my light and crept down the aisle to the back end of the tent, the Maglite held like a club in my hand. The flashlight weighed three pounds. When I’d been in uniform I had once used this flashlight to defend my life against a 270-pound biker on PCP. He’d ended up in the hospital with a concussion. I didn’t draw my weapon. I wanted to see, not confront. The Glock was my last line of defense. The wind howled and the tent top swelled upward like a balloon wanting to take flight. The thick ropes holding the tent stakes squeaked and groaned. I slipped around the end stalls, staying close to the wall. The land behind the tent dropped off sharply to ground that had been cleared and burned over the summer, being made ready for more tents, more schooling rings. It looked like a moonscape. The smell of ash flavored the air. As I started to ease around the end stall to the next aisle, I heard a door swing back on its hinges, and there was a sharp, distinct sound that didn’t register until the next thing had already happened. Like a specter running from the otherworld, a huge, ghostly gray horse barreled down the aisle straight at me. He was nearly on top of me before I could react, knocking me backward. I scrambled to keep my feet moving, to throw myself out of his way. A tent spike caught my right ankle and jerked my leg out from under me, dumping me to the ground with a jarring thud. I tried to cover my head and pull myself into a ball, every inch of me braced for the horrible strike of steel-shod hooves and the driving weight of a half-ton animal coming down on soft tissue and fragile bones. But the gray leapt over me, then soared over the edge of the embankment. I scrambled to my knees and watched in horror as he stumbled hard down the bank, going down on his knees, hind legs still running. He squealed in fright, flailing to right himself, dragging himself up and running on into the night. Pushing to my feet, I turned back toward the tent as another horse ran out. Dark with a blaze. Whinnying as it ran after the gray. I dove to the side as he bolted past. A slap on the ass. The sound I’d heard before: the flat of a hand slapping a horse’s rump. I ran back into the tent. The rest of the barn was in an uproar by now, horses screaming and banging in their stalls. The flimsy pipe-and-canvas stalls shaking and rattling. The tent walls shuddering as the wind kicked at them. I shouted, hoping to frighten the perpetrator with discovery and send him running. Another horse pranced out of an open stall, saw me, snorted and bolted past, knocking me into the door of the stall behind me. Then that door shoved forward, pushing me with it, knocking me to my knees. I scuttled ahead like a crab, reaching for the door across the way to pull myself up. The horse came out of the stall behind me like a rodeo bronc, a raw bellow coming from it as it bucked and kicked out at me. I felt the air whoosh past my ear as the hoof just missed its mark. Before I could start to turn around, a smelly, suffocating blackness engulfed my head and upper body and I was shoved forward against a stall. I tried to claw at the blanket, but couldn’t get my arms up. I wanted air. I wanted what little light there was. I wanted to be free to fight my assailant, who jerked me backward, then sideways, one way and then the other. Dizziness swirled through my head and I staggered and stumbled and went down on one knee. Then something struck hard, hitting me across the back with enough force to make me see stars. On the third blow I fell forward and lay still. My breath was a hot rasp in the shallowest part of my lungs. I couldn’t hear anything but a roaring in my head, and I wondered if I would know what was happening

before the next loose horse ran over me, crushing me beneath its hooves. I tried to push myself up and couldn’t. The messages scattered somewhere between my brain and my nerve pathways. Pain kicked me in the back and I choked and coughed, needing air, unable to take a deep breath. A moment passed. No horses trampled me. No pitchfork impaled me. I figured my attacker had run, which left me in a very bad place at a very bad time. Horses were running loose. If someone came rushing into this barn and found me . . . I tried again to gather my strength and managed to shove the horse blanket off my head. Gulping air, fighting nausea, I grabbed hold of the stall door and dragged myself to my feet. Dizzy, the ground seeming to pitch beneath me, I stumbled out the back of the tent and fell down again. The Maglite lay on the ground where it had landed when the first horse had hit me, its beam a yellow beacon in the dark. I scooped it up, grabbed hold of a tent rope, and pulled myself up. Horses were running in the cleared ground down the slope. Some were running between this tent and the next. The wind was blowing harder, carrying the first pelting drops of rain. I heard someone shout in the distance. Time to go. I stepped inside the tent just far enough to flick the beam across the front of an open stall. In Case of Emergency Phone Michael Berne . . . “Don’t move. Drop the flashlight.” The voice came from behind me on a beam of light that spilled around my shoulders. I kept the Maglite in my hand, but held my arms away from my body. “I heard a commotion,” I said, turning slightly. “Someone was in here opening stall doors.” “Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically. “Guess who. Drop the flashlight.” “It wasn’t me,” I said, turning a little more. “I tried to stop them. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.” “I’m not gonna tell you again, lady. Drop the flashlight.” “I want to see who you are. How do I know you’re not the person who did this?” “I’m with security.” I didn’t find that reassuring. Security for the show grounds was contracted out to a private company that lowballed the bid for the job. The staff was probably as reliable and well trained as the people who let lunatics get on commercial airliners with guns and knives. For all I knew, half of them were convicted felons. With my back to him, I couldn’t be sure he was even wearing the uniform. “Let me see you.” He huffed an impatient sigh. Before he could say no, I turned around and hit him full in the face with the beam from the Maglite. I noted his clothes second. I noted his gun first. “Is that part of the uniform?” I asked. “It’s part of my uniform.” He made a motion with it. “Enough with the questions. Cut the light and give it

to me. Let’s go.” I did as instructed, more than willing to get out in the open where I knew there were other people around. I considered and rejected the idea of making a break for it. I didn’t want people looking for me, my description and sketch on the front page of the newspaper. Nor did I want to get shot in the back. Playing along for the moment could offer an opportunity to learn something. Outside, people were calling, horses were whinnying. I could hear hoofbeats on the hard-packed road. The guard herded me to a golf cart parked on the side of tent nineteen—Jade’s barn. I wondered how long the cart had been parked there. I wondered how easy it would be to buy a guy like this to open some stall doors. Working nights for peanuts guarding horses worth more than the average man would make in a lifetime might alter a person’s perspective of right and wrong. I slid onto the passenger’s side of the bench seat, the seat wet and slippery as the rain came harder. The guard kept his gun in his left hand as he started the cart and backed it around. I shifted positions, turning slightly toward him, and surreptitiously touched the Glock, still secure in the back of my jeans, beneath my jacket and turtleneck. “Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. A walkie-talkie crackled on his belt. Other guards radioing about the loose horses. He didn’t get on the air to tell anyone he’d apprehended me. I didn’t like that. We started down the road toward the main part of the show grounds, a ghost town at two in the morning. “I’ll want to speak to your supervisor,” I said with authority. “And someone will need to call Detective James Landry with the Sheriff’s Office.” That turned his head. “Why?” I took my turn not answering. Let him wonder. We passed other guards, other people running through the rain to join in the fun of trying to catch half a dozen hot-blooded horses drunk on freedom. We drove through the maze of tents and down a row of deserted retail shops. The rain came now in sheets. We drove farther and farther away from any source of help. My heart rate increased a beat. Adrenaline was like a narcotic in my bloodstream, the prospect of danger intoxicating and exciting. I stared at the security guard and wondered what he would think if he knew that. Most people would find it disturbing. He pulled the golf cart alongside one of the big trailers that housed the various show grounds management offices and cut the engine. We clattered up the metal stairs and the guard ushered me inside. A heavyset man stood beside a metal desk, listening to the noise coming over a walkie-talkie the size of a brick. He had a throat like a bullfrog: a sack of flesh wider than his head, spilling over the collar of his shirt. He wore the blue security uniform too, with a couple of extra pins on the chest. Decorated for meritorious ass-sitting and delegating above and beyond the call, I guessed. He scowled at me as I stood dripping water all over the floor. “She’s the one,” the guard said. “I caught her opening stall doors.” I looked him in the face and said with just enough point to make my meaning crystal clear: “Any more little surprises like that in your pocket?”

He had stuffed the gun. I could see him struggle with the notion that he’d blown it showing me the thing. I had something to use against him. He wasn’t supposed to be carrying on the job. He probably didn’t have a permit for it either. If that was true and I reported him to the police, there was a good chance he’d lose his job at the very least. I could see on his face all these things were just now occurring to him. If he’d been overly bright he wouldn’t have been working dog watch in a rent-a-cop uniform. “You caught me standing in a barn with a flashlight,” I said. “I was trying to help. Same as you.” “You got something against Michael Berne?” the bullfrog asked. He had the thick drawl of a panhandle Floridian, where the Sunshine State and the Deep South rub loins, as it were. “I’ve never met Michael Berne, though I did see him having a loud, threatening argument with Don Jade this morning. You might want to find out where Mr. Jade is right now.” The supervisor stared at me. “Berne is on his way,” he said. “And a couple of deputies. Have a seat, Miss . . . ?” I didn’t answer and I didn’t sit, though my back was aching like a son of a bitch from the beating I’d taken. “You’ll need to tell the deputies to treat that stall area as a crime scene,” I said. “In addition to letting the horses loose, your perp assaulted me when I tried to run him off. They’ll find a pitchfork or a broom— something with a long handle—that may have his prints on it. I’ll want to press charges. And I’ll want to go to the emergency room for an examination, and to have them take photographs of my bruises. I may sue. What kind of management does this place have if they can’t keep people or animals safe?” Bullfrog looked at me as if he’d never seen one of my kind before. “Who are you?” “I’m not telling you my name.” “I need your name, miss. I have to make a report.” “That’s a problem then, because I’m not telling you,” I said. “I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re not an officer of the court or of the government, and therefore you have no right to demand information of me.” “Deputies are on the way,” he said by way of a threat. “That’s fine. I’ll be happy to go with them, though they have no grounds to arrest me. Standing in a barn aisle is not a crime that I’m aware of.” “Bud says you let them horses loose.” “I think you should ask Bud again what he saw.” He looked at Bud. “Was she letting them loose or not?” Bud looked constipated, unable to tell the lie he wanted to tell either to cover his own ass or to grab a little glory with his boss. “She was right there.” “So were you,” I pointed out. “How do we know you didn’t open those doors?” “That’s ridiculous,” Bullfrog said. “Why would he do something like that?”

“I could only speculate. Money. Maliciousness. Mental illness.” “Maybe those motives all apply to you.” “Not in this particular instance.” “You have horses here on the grounds, Miss—?” “I’m through speaking with you now,” I announced. “May I use your phone to call my attorney?” He squinted at me. “No!” I sat then in a straight chair beside the desk. Bullfrog’s radio crackled. The gate guard announcing the arrival of the sheriff’s deputies. A stroke of luck. I didn’t want to meet Michael Berne in these circumstances. Bullfrog instructed the gate guard to send the radio car to the security office. “Letting them horses loose is a serious crime,” he said to me. “You could do time for that.” “No, I couldn’t, because I didn’t let the horses loose. The perpetrator might be charged with malicious mischief, which is a misdemeanor. There would be a fine and maybe community service. It’s nothing compared to, say, illegally carrying a concealed weapon,” I said, looking at the scowling Bud. “I thought you said you were through talking,” he said. I smoothed my wet hair back with my hands and stood up as a car door slammed outside the trailer. The deputy came in looking like he’d been awakened from a sound sleep to answer the call. “What’s up, Marsh? Somebody let some nags loose? This her?” “She was in the vicinity,” Bullfrog said. “She may have information about the crime.” The deputy looked at me, unimpressed. “Do you, ma’am?” “I’ll speak directly to Detective Landry,” I said. “What’s your name, ma’am?” I moved past him, going to the door, checking out his name tag as I passed. “We’ll talk in the car, Deputy Saunders. Let’s get going.” He looked at Bullfrog, who shook his head and said, “Good luck with that, son. She’s a pistol.” 9 You got me out of bed for this?” Landry looked from Deputy Saunders to me with the kind of disgust usually reserved for spoiled food. “She won’t talk to anyone else,” Saunders said. We walked down the hall toward the squad room, Landry muttering, “Aren’t I the lucky one. I don’t see what any of us are doing here. You could have handled this in the field in half an hour. Jesus.” “I was assaulted,” I said. “I think that warrants a detective.” “Then you take whoever is up. You know that.”

“But I’ve already established a relationship with you regarding this case.” “No, you haven’t, because there isn’t any case. What you talked to me about yesterday isn’t a case.” We went into the division offices through reception. Landry handed his badge and his weapon to the security officer through the drawer beneath the bulletproof glass. Saunders followed suit. I pulled the Glock out of the back of my jeans, put it and my car keys in the tray. Landry stared at me. I shrugged. “I’ve got a license.” He turned to Saunders. “You fucking idiot. She could have blown your empty head off in the car.” “Now, Detective,” I cooed, slipping past him as the security officer buzzed the door open. “I’m not that kind of girl.” “Get out of here, Saunders,” he snapped. “You’re about as useful as a limp dick.” We left Saunders looking forlorn in the outer office. Landry stalked past me, the muscles in his jaw working. We went past his desk to an interview room. He pushed the door back. “In here.” I went in and gingerly took a seat. The pain in my back wouldn’t let me draw a full breath. I had begun to wonder if maybe I really should go to an ER. Landry slammed the door. “What the hell were you thinking?” “That’s rather a broad question, so I’m just going to take my pick of moments,” I said. “I went to the equestrian center to look for some hint of what might have happened to Erin Seabright.” “But you weren’t in the barn where she worked, right? She worked for some guy named Jade. So how is it you were in this other barn?” “Michael Berne is an enemy of Don Jade. This morning I witnessed Berne threaten Jade.” “Threaten him how?” “In that if-I-find-out-you-killed-that-horse-I’ll-ruin-you kind of way.” “So this Jade sneaks in and turns the guy’s horses loose. Big deal.” “It’s a big deal to the man whose livelihood depends on the soundness of those horses. It’s a big deal to the trainer who has to explain to owners how a horse worth a quarter of a million or a half a million dollars came to break a leg running around loose in the dead of night.” Landry heaved a sigh and turned his head at an odd angle, as if to pop a vertebra in his neck. “And you’ d drag me out of bed for this?” “No. I did that just for fun.” “You’re a pain in the ass, Estes. Not like you haven’t been told that before.” “That and worse. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t have a very high opinion of myself either,” I said. “I suppose you think I’m being flip, and that’s all right. I don’t care what you think of me. I want you to be aware there are bad things going on that all seem to center on Don Jade. Don Jade is the man Erin

Seabright was working for. Erin Seabright is missing. Do you see the connection here?” He shook his head. “So I’m told you’re caught standing there in this other guy’s barn. How do I know you didn’t let these nags loose just to get attention? You want people looking at Jade, so you orchestrate this little opera—” “Nice turn of phrase. And did I beat myself with a pitchfork handle too? I can assure you, I’m not that flexible.” “You’re walking around. You don’t look any worse for wear to me.” I slipped my jacket off and stood up. “All right. I don’t usually do this on the first interrogation, but if you promise not to call me a slut . . .” I turned my back to him and pulled my sweater up to my neck. “If those marks look anywhere near as bad as they feel—” “Jesus.” He spoke the word softly, without anger, without energy, the wind knocked out of his sails. I knew it probably didn’t have as much to do with the marks my assailant had left on me as it did with the patchwork of skin grafts I’d worn for the past two years. That wasn’t what I had wanted. Not at all. I had lived with those scars a long time now. They were a part of me. I had kept them to myself because I kept to myself. I didn’t dwell on them. I didn’t look at them. In a strange way, the damage that had been done to my body was unimportant to me, because I had become unimportant to myself. Suddenly the damage was very important. I felt naked emotionally. Vulnerable. I pulled the sweater down and picked up my jacket, my back still to Landry. “Forget it,” I said, embarrassed and angry with myself. “I’m going home.” “You want to press charges?” “Against whom?” I asked, turning to face him. “The asshole you’re not going to bother to look for, let alone question, because nothing that goes on with that horse crowd is of any interest to you? Unless, of course, someone turns up murdered.” He couldn’t think of anything to say to that. The corner of my mouth moved in what passed for a bitter smile. “Imagine that: You at least have the humanity to feel sheepish. Good for you, Landry.” I stepped past him, going to the door. “How do you like my odds that Saunders is sitting in the parking lot catching twenty? Pretty good, I think. See you around, Landry. I’ll call you when I find a body.” “Estes. Wait.” He didn’t want to meet my eyes when I turned again and looked at him. “You should go to an ER. I’ll take you. You might have busted a rib or something.” “I’ve had worse.” “Jesus Christ, you’re a hardhead.”

“I don’t want your pity,” I said. “I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want you to like me or care what happens to me. I don’t want anything from you but for you to do your job. And apparently, that’s too much to ask. “I’ll show myself out. I know the way.” He followed me back to reception. Neither of us spoke as we retrieved our weapons. I pretended he had ceased to exist as we walked down the hall and down the stairs. “I’m good at what I do,” he said as the front doors came into view. “Really? What’s that? You have a second career as a professional asshole?” “You’re a piece of work.” “I’m what I have to be.” “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re rude and you’re a bitch, and that somehow makes you feel superior to the rest of us.” The rain was still coming down. It looked white as it passed through the beams of the security lights in the parking lot. Saunders and his radio car were gone. “Great,” I said. “I guess I have to take you up on that ride, after all.” Landry looked at me sideways as he flipped up the collar of his jacket. “Fuck you. Call a cab.” I watched him get into his car, and stood there in the rain until he’d backed up and driven away. Then I went back inside to use the phone. I couldn’t say I hadn’t asked for it. When the cabbie finally showed, he wanted to chat, curious about why I needed a ride from the Sheriff’s Office at 3:45 in the morning. I told him my boyfriend was wanted for murder. He didn’t ask any more questions after that. I propped myself up in the back of the cab and spent the ride home wondering how Erin Seabright was spending the night. 10 Landry didn’t sleep for shit, and it was Estes’ fault. Her fault he’d been dragged out of bed in the first place. Her fault he couldn’t get back to sleep once he’d finally gotten back home. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her back, crisscrossed with lines where new flesh had been stitched into old. The bruises just coming to the surface from her run-in at the equestrian center were insignificant, pale shadows beneath the old damage. Damage. He thought of Estes and what he knew about her. Their paths hadn’t crossed when she was on the job. Narcs ran their own way. They spent too much time undercover, as far as he was concerned. It made them edgy and unpredictable. An opinion borne out in the incident that had ended her career, and ended the life of Hector Ramirez. What he knew about that incident was what everybody knew: Estes had jumped the gun, gone against orders to make the bust herself, and all hell had broken loose. He had never given any thought to Estes, beyond thinking she’d gotten what she deserved, losing her job.

He knew she’d been wounded, hospitalized, was suing the SO for her disability pay—which seemed pretty damned nervy, considering—but it had nothing to do with him, and he didn’t give a shit about her. She was trouble. He had figured it, and now he knew it for a fact. Pushy bitch. Telling him how to do his job. He wondered about what had happened to her at the equestrian center, wondered if it really did have anything to do with this girl she said was missing . . . If the girl was missing, why would a twelve-year-old child be the only one to report it? Why not her parents? Why not her employer? Her parents who maybe wanted to be rid of her. Her boss who maybe had a major scam going, and maybe beat Estes across the back with a broom handle. He saw her back, a patchwork of mismatched flesh stretched taut over bone. At five-thirty he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of running shorts, stretched, did a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups, and started his day. Again.

I stand at the side of the Golam brothers’ trailer. I’ve been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that’s not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I’ve got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I’ve worked this case three months. I know what I’m doing. I know I’m right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff. He’s stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn’t know his ass. He didn’t listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam’s four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they’ll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road. Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now . . . They think they know me. I key the button on my radio. “This is stupid. They’re going to break for the truck. I’m going in.” “Goddammit, Estes—” I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It’s my case. It’s my bust. I know what I ’m doing. I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers’ customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. “Hey, Billy, it’s Elle! I need some.” Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking—crystal meth. He’s

breathing hard. He’s got a gun in his hand. Shit. The front door explodes inward. One of the girls screams. Buddy Golam shouts: “Cops!” Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath. He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him. I go for my weapon as Billy bolts out the door and knocks me off the stoop. He’s running for the truck as I scramble to get my feet under me. The engine roars to life. “Billy!” I scream, running for the truck. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The cords in his neck stand out as he screams. He throws the truck into reverse and hits the gas. I throw myself at the driver’s door, grab hold of the side mirror and the window frame, and get one foot on the running board. I don’t think what I’m doing. I just act. I’m screaming. He’s screaming. He brings the gun up and points it in my face. I hit the gun, hit his face. He cranks the wheel around as the truck runs backward. One of my feet slips off the running board. He throws the truck into drive and gravel spews out behind it. I struggle to keep from falling. I try to grab the wheel. The truck catches hold of pavement. Golam cranks the wheel hard left. His face is a contorted mask, mouth wide, eyes wild. I try to grab for him. He shoves the door open as the truck spins around in the road. I’m hanging in space. I’m falling. The road slams against my back. My left cheekbone shatters like an egg. Then the black shadow of Billy Golam’s four-by-four sweeps over me, and I die. And I wake.

Five-thirty A.M. After two hours of fitful dozing, waiting for a rib fragment to deflate one or both of my lungs, I oozed over the side of my bed and forced myself to attempt stretching. I went into the bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror, and looked at my body. Too thin. Rectangular marks on both thighs where the skin grafts were taken. Gouges into the meat of the left leg. I turned and tried to look over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I looked at what I had shown Landry, and called myself stupid. The one useful thing my father had ever taught me: never show a weakness, never appear vulnerable. The bruises from my beating were dark maroon stripes. It hurt when I breathed. At 6:15—after I’d fed the horses—I drove myself to the ER. The X rays showed no broken bones. A bleary-eyed resident, who’d had even less sleep than I, questioned me, clearly not believing my story of having fallen down a flight of stairs. All the staff looked at me askance with jaded eyes. Twice I was asked if I wanted to talk to a cop. I thanked them and declined. No one forced the issue, which led me to wonder how many battered women were allowed to simply walk out of the place and back into their own private hell. The resident vomited up a big load of medical terms, trying to intimidate me with his expensive education. I looked at him, unimpressed, and said, “I have bruised ribs.” “You have bruised ribs. I’ll give you a prescription for painkillers. Go home and rest. No significant physical activity for forty-eight hours.” “Yeah, right.” He gave me a scrip for Vicodin. I laughed when I looked at it. I stuffed it in the pocket of my windbreaker as I left the building. My arms worked, my legs worked, no bones were protruding, I wasn’ t bleeding. I was ambulatory, I was fine. As long as I knew I wouldn’t die of it, I had places to go, people to see. My first call was to Michael Berne, or rather, to Michael Berne’s assistant—the phone number on the stall doors. Michael was a busy man. “Ask him if he’s too busy to speak to a potential client,” I said. “I can always take my business to Don Jade, if that’s the case.” Miraculously, Michael’s time suddenly freed up and the assistant handed off the phone. “This is Michael. How can I help you?” “By dishing some dirt on your friend, Mr. Jade,” I said quietly. “I’m a private investigator.” 11 I dressed in black from head to toe, slicked my hair back with a handful of gel, put on a pair of narrow black wraparound sunglasses, and stole Sean’s black Mercedes SL. I looked like a character from The Matrix. Serious, mysterious, edgy. Not a disguise, but a uniform. Image is everything. I had asked Berne to meet me in the parking lot at Denny’s in Royal Palm Beach, a fifteen-minute drive

from the show grounds. He had groused about the drive, but I couldn’t take the risk of being seen with him near the equestrian center. Berne arrived in a Honda Civic that had seen better days. He got out of the car looking nervous, glancing around. A private eye, a clandestine meeting. Heady stuff. He was dressed to ride in gray breeches with a couple of stains and a red polo shirt that clashed with his hair. I buzzed down the Mercedes’ side window. “Mr. Berne. You’re here to meet me.” He squinted at me, doubtful, uncertain, unable to get any kind of a read on me. An agent for a shadow organization. Maybe he’d been expecting Nancy Drew. “We’ll talk out here,” I said. “Please get in the car.” He hesitated like a child being offered a ride by a stranger. He looked around the parking lot again as if he expected something bad to happen. Masked operatives creeping out of the shrubbery to ambush him. “If you have something to tell me, get in the car,” I said impatiently. He was so tall, he had to fold himself in to fit into the Mercedes, as if he were getting into a clown car. What a contrast he was to Jade’s handsome, elegant image. Howdy Doody on growth hormones. Red hair and freckles, skinny as a rail. I’d read enough about Michael Berne to know he’d been a minor contender in the international show-jumping world in the early nineties, when he had ridden a horse called Iroquois. But the biggest thing he’d done was a tour of Europe with the second string of the U.S. Olympic team. Then Iroquois’ owners had sold the stallion out from under him, and he hadn’t had a big winner since. When Trey Hughes had come into his barn, Berne had been quoted in an interview saying that Stellar was his ride back into the international spotlight. Then Stellar went to Don Jade’s barn, and Michael Berne’s star dimmed again. “Who do you work for again, Ms. Estes?” he asked, taking in the pricey car. “I didn’t say.” “Are you with the insurance company? Are you with the police?” “How many cops do you know drive a Mercedes, Mr. Berne?” I asked, allowing the barest hint of amusement to show. I lit one of Sean’s French cigarettes and blew the smoke at the windshield. “I’m a private investigator—private being the operative word. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about, Mr. Berne. Unless, of course, you’ve done something wrong.” “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said defensively. “I run an honest business. There aren’t any stories going around about me killing horses for the insurance money. That’s Don Jade’s territory.” “You think he had Stellar killed?” “I know he did.” I watched him from the corner of my eye, and when I spoke I used a flat, monotone, business voice. “You have something to back that up? Like evidence?” His mouth turned down in a sour pout. “Jade’s too smart for that. He always covers his tracks. Last night, for example. No one will ever connect Don Jade to it, but he had my horses turned loose.”

“Why would he do that?” “Because I confronted him. I know what he is. It’s people like Jade that give the horse business a bad name. Crooked deals, stealing clients, killing horses. People turn a blind eye as long as they aren’t the victims. Someone has to do something.” “Did Trey Hughes ever approach you about doing something to Stellar?” “No. I had Stellar on track. He was making progress. I thought we had a shot at the World Cup. I would never have anything to do with a scheme like that anyway.” “Why did Hughes take the horse away from you?” “Jade poached him. He steals clients all the time.” “It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you weren’t winning?” Berne glared at me. “We were getting there. It was only a matter of time.” “But Hughes wasn’t willing to wait.” “Jade probably told him he could do it faster.” “Yeah, well, now Stellar is going nowhere.” “What about the autopsy?” “Necropsy.” “What?” “It’s called a necropsy when it’s a horse.” He didn’t like being corrected. “So what did it show?” “I’m not at liberty to divulge those details, Mr. Berne. Were there any rumors going around before the horse died? I heard he wasn’t sound.” “He was getting older. Older horses need maintenance—joint injections, supplements, things like that. But he was tough. He had a big heart and he always did his job.” “No one was hinting anything hinky was going on in Jade’s barn?” I asked. “There are always rumors about Jade. He’s done this before, you know.” “I’m familiar with Mr. Jade’s background. What kind of rumors lately?” “The usual. What drugs his horses are on. Whose clients he’s after. How he’s got Trey Hughes by the balls—pardon my language.” “Why would anyone say that?” “Come on,” he said, defensive again. “He must have something. How else is he getting that barn Hughes is building?” “Through merit? Good deeds? Friendship?”

None of my suggestions appealed. “You worked for Trey Hughes,” I said. “What could Jade have on him?” “Take your pick: his drug du jour, whose wife he’s been sleeping with—” “How he came to inherit so suddenly?” I suggested. Berne tried to sit back and study me for a moment, his expression not unlike Jill Morone’s when she’d been trying to decide how to play me. “You think he killed his mother?” “I don’t think anything. I’m just asking questions.” He considered something and laughed. “Trey would never have the nerve. He stuttered whenever he talked about Sallie. She scared the crap out of him.” I didn’t point out that Trey only needed nerve enough to hire someone else for the job. Delegating was something I was sure came quite easily to a man who had spent his entire life shirking any kind of responsibility. “You haven’t heard any rumors up that alley?” I asked. “People make jokes behind his back. No one really thinks it. Trey has all he can do getting himself through the day. He couldn’t organize his wallet, let alone plan a murder and get away with it. Anyway, he was with someone the night he got the call about his mother.” “Really? Who?” He looked away. “What difference does that make?” “It makes a difference if that person is in fact an accessory to murder.” “It’s nothing like that.” “I’ll get the answer one way or another, Mr. Berne. Do you want me asking all around the show grounds, opening up old wounds, stirring up old gossip?” Berne stared out the window. “Should I start guessing?” I asked. “Maybe it was you. That would put a fresh spin on an old story, wouldn’t it?” “I’m no fruit!” “It’s hardly a stigma in the equestrian community, is it?” I said on the verge of boredom. “From what I’ve seen, maybe every third guy is straight. Think of all the new friends you’ll have if you come out of the closet. Or maybe you already have. I could look for an old boyfriend—” “It was my wife.” Who he gave up in a heartbeat rather than have a perfect stranger think his switch clicked the other way. “Your wife was with Trey Hughes the night his mother died? With him in the biblical sense?” “Yes.”

“With or without your consent?” I asked. Berne turned purple. “What the hell kind of question is that?” “If you thought you were on the verge of losing a client, maybe you and the missus cooked up a little incentive plan for him to stay.” “That’s sick!” “The world’s a twisted place, Mr. Berne. No offense to you, but I don’t know much about you as a person. For instance: I don’t know if you’re trustworthy. I need my name and my job description kept out of the public forum. I find people to be more closemouthed if they themselves have a secret they’d like kept. Are you getting my drift here, Mr. Berne? Or do I need to be more direct?” He looked incredulous. “Are you threatening me?” “I prefer to think we’re reaching a mutual understanding on the importance of confidentiality. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.” “You don’t work for General Fidelity,” he mused. “Phil would have said something.” “Phil?” “Phil Wilshire. The claims adjuster. I know him. He would have said something about you.” “He’s talked to you about this case?” “I want Jade caught once and for all,” he said, screwing up some self-righteous indignation. “He should be run out of the business. If there’s anything I can do, I will.” “Anything?” I asked pointedly. “I’d be careful with my mouth if I were you, Mr. Berne,” I cautioned. “A case could easily be made that you so hated Don Jade, you killed Stellar and you’re trying to hang it on Jade in order to ruin him. There goes his career. There goes his position with Trey Hughes. You patch things up with Hughes, maybe you slip right back into the picture.” Berne exploded. “You asked me to come here so you could accuse me?! What are you? Crazy?” “My, what a temper you have, Mr. Berne,” I said calmly. “You should try anger management counseling. Rage is bad for your health.” He wanted to scream at me. I could see him almost choke on it. “To answer your earlier question: No. I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m blunt. I have to cover all the bases, and I don’t have time to screw around. I don’t make friends doing it, but I get the answers I need. “Maybe you’re not guilty of a thing, Mr. Berne. Like I said, I don’t know you. But in my experience, most crime is underpinned by three motives: money, sex, and/or jealousy. You score in all categories. So let’s clear you right now, and I can concentrate on Jade. Where were you when Stellar died?” “Home. In bed. With my wife.” I took a last long drag on the cigarette and exhaled through half a smile. “She’s going to have to change her name to Alibi.” Berne held up his hands. “That’s it. I’m through here. I came out of the goodness of my heart to help—”

“Put the violin away, Berne. We both know why you came here. You want Jade ruined. That’s fine with me. I have my own agenda.” “Which is what?” “My client’s interest. Maybe we can both end up with what we want. How long after Sallie Hughes died did Trey take his horses to Jade?” I asked. “Two weeks.” “And when did you hear Hughes had bought the property in Fairfields?” “A month later.” My head felt like it had been put in a vise. I didn’t want to know the sordid details of Trey Hughes’ life or Michael Berne’s life or Don Jade’s life. I wanted to find Erin Seabright. My luck she lived in Pandora’s box. I pulled her photograph out of the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to Berne. “Have you ever seen this girl?” “No.” “She worked for Jade up until last Sunday. She was a groom.” Berne made a face. “Grooms come and go. I have all I can do to keep track of my own.” “This one vanished. Look again, please. You never saw her with Jade?” “Jade always has women around him. I don’t see the attraction, myself.” “Jade has a reputation in that area, doesn’t he? Sleeps with the help?” “The help, the clients, other people’s clients. There’s nothing he won’t stoop to.” “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Berne,” I said. I handed him a plain white card with a number printed on it. “If you have anything useful to tell, please call this number and leave a message. Someone will contact you. Thank you for your time.”

L andry parked his car among the giant four-by-four trucks, BMWs, and Jaguars, and got out, already scanning the ground so he wouldn’t step in anything. He’d grown up in a city. All he knew about horses was that they were huge and smelled bad. The day was bright and warm. He squinted even through the lenses of his aviator shades as he surveyed the scene. It looked like a goddam refugee camp—tents and animals everywhere. People on bicycles and motor scooters. Dust billowed in clouds as trucks rumbled past. He saw Jade’s sign, went into the tent, and asked the first person he saw where Mr. Jade was. An Hispanic man with a pitchfork of shit in hand nodded to the side of the tent and said, “Outside.” Landry went in the direction of the nod. Halfway between Jade’s tent and the next a man in riding clothes was sipping from a Starbucks cup, listening impassively as an attractive blonde talked at him. The blonde seemed upset.

“Mr. Jade?” The pair turned and looked at him as he approached and showed them his badge. “Detective Landry, Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” “Oh, my God!” the blonde laughed, flashing a big smile. “I knew you’d get caught! You never should have torn the tag off that mattress.” She turned the smile on Landry. “Paris Montgomery. I’m Mr. Jade’s assistant trainer.” Landry didn’t smile back. Three hours’ sleep didn’t supply enough energy to waste on phony charm. He looked past the woman. “You’re Mr. Jade?” “What’s this about?” Jade asked, striding into the tent and past Landry, trying to draw him back away from where passersby might see them. “Are you aware of what happened here last night?” Landry asked. “Some horses were set loose a couple of tents down the row.” “Michael Berne’s,” Paris Montgomery supplied. “Of course we know. It’s terrible. Something has to be done about security. Do you have any idea what these animals are worth?” “Their weight in gold, apparently,” Landry said, bored hearing about it. Why in hell should a horse be worth a million bucks if it wasn’t on a racetrack? “He’s going to come after you, Don,” she said to her boss. “You know Michael will be telling everyone who’ll listen you did the deed—or had it done.” “Why would you say that, Ms. Montgomery?” Landry asked. “Because that’s how Michael is: bitter and vindictive. He blames everything but his lack of talent on Don.” Jade looked at her with hooded eyes. “That’s enough, Paris. Everyone knows Michael is jealous.” “Of what?” Landry asked. “Of Don,” the woman said. “Don is everything Michael is not, and when Michael’s clients see that and leave him, he blames Don. He probably turned those horses loose himself just so he could publicly blame Don.” Landry kept his eyes on Jade. “That must get old. You ever want to do something to shut him up?” Jade’s expression never changed. Calm, cool, controlled. “I learned a long time ago to ignore people like Michael.” “You should threaten to sue him for libel,” Paris said. “Maybe that would shut him up.” “Slander,” Jade corrected her. “Slander is spoken. Libel is written.” “Don’t be such a prick,” Paris snapped. “He’s doing everything he can to ruin your reputation. And you walk around like you think you’re in some kind of isolation bubble. You think he can’t hurt you? You think he isn’t in Trey’s ear every chance he gets?” “I can’t stop Michael from spewing his venom, and I can’t stop people from listening to him,” Jade said.

“I’m sure Detective Landry didn’t come here to listen to us complain.” “I’m not here about the horses either,” Landry said. “A woman was assaulted in the attempt to stop whoever set them loose.” Paris Montgomery’s brown eyes widened in shock. “What woman? Stella? Michael’s wife? Was she hurt?” “I understand there was a scene yesterday between you and Mr. Berne, Mr. Jade,” Landry said. “Would you care to tell me where you were around two A.M.?” “No, I would not,” Jade said curtly, going to stand beside the horse that was tied in an open stall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have a horse to ride.” “Maybe you’d rather discuss it at length at the Sheriff’s Office,” Landry suggested. He didn’t like being dismissed like a servant. Jade gave him a look. Haughty—even through the shades. “Maybe you’d rather take it up with my attorney.” “Save your money and my time, Mr. Jade. All you have to do is tell me where you were. It’s only a trick question if you were here.” “I was with a friend. We were not here.” “Does this friend have a name?” “Not as far as you’re concerned.” He tightened a strap on the saddle. The horse pinned its ears. Landry looked for a place to jump in case the beast went nuts or something. It looked mean, like it would bite. Jade unsnapped the ties that held the animal in the stall. “Our conversation is over,” Jade announced. “Unless you have something that connects me to what happened, other than the hearsay that Michael and I don’t get along—and I know that you don’t—I don ’t intend to speak to you again.” He led the horse out of the stall and down the aisle. Landry pressed back against a wall, holding his breath—a good idea regardless, in this place. The smell of manure and horses and Christ-knew-what hung in the air like smog. When the horse was out of range to kick him, he followed. “What about you, Ms. Montgomery?” The blonde caught a look from her boss, then turned to Landry. “Ditto. What he said. With a friend.” They went out into the sunshine and Jade mounted the horse. “Paris, bring my coat and hat.” “Will do.” Jade didn’t wait for her, but turned the horse and started down the road. “With each other?” Landry asked, walking back into the tent with Montgomery.

“No. God no!” she said. “I take orders from him all day. I’m not interested in taking them all night too.” “He’s got an attitude.” “He’s earned it. People don’t cut him a lot of breaks.” “Maybe that’s because he doesn’t deserve any.” He followed her into a stall draped in green with an oriental carpet on the floor and framed art on the walls. She opened an antique wardrobe and pulled out an olive green jacket and a brown velvet-covered helmet. “You don’t know him,” she said. “And you do. Who do you think he was with last night?” She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not privy to Don’s private life. This is the first I heard he’s seeing anyone.” Then it seemed unlikely he was, Landry thought. From what he’d gathered, these horse people practically lived in each other’s pockets. And proximity aside, they were all rich, or pretended to be rich; and the only thing rich people liked better than fucking each other over was gossiping. “He’s very discreet,” Montgomery said. “I guess that’s what’s kept him out of prison: discretion. Your boss has toed the wrong side of the line a couple of times.” “And has never been convicted of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get up to the schooling ring or he’ll kill me.” She flashed the bright smile. “Then you’ll have a job to do.” Landry followed her out of the tent. She climbed behind the wheel of a green golf cart with the Jade logo on the nose, folded the coat, and put it on the seat beside her. The helmet went into a basket behind the seat. “What about you, Ms. Montgomery? Does your mystery pal have a name?” “Yes, he does,” she said, batting her eyes coyly. “But I don’t kiss and tell either, Detective. A girl could get a reputation that way.” She started the golf cart and drove away, calling and waving to people as she went past the tents. Ms. Popularity. Landry stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, aware there was a girl watching him from inside the tent. He could see her from the corner of his eye: chubby, unkempt, tight T-shirt showing off curves and rolls better left to the imagination. Landry wanted to get back in the car and leave. Estes was right: he didn’t give a shit what these people did to each other. But he’d had to account for what had gone on in the office in the middle of the night with Estes demanding to see only him, and no paperwork being filed, and what a fucking nightmare. His lieutenant wouldn’t take that Estes wasn’t filing charges and leave it at that. He had to follow up. He sighed and turned, drawing a bead on the girl. “You work here?”

Her small eyes widened. She looked like she didn’t know whether to shit her pants or have an orgasm. She nodded. Landry went back inside, pulling his notebook out of his hip pocket. “Name?” “Jill Morone. M-O-R-O-N-E. I’m Mr. Jade’s head groom.” “Uh-huh. And where were you last night around two?” “In bed,” she said, smug with a secret she was dying to spill. “With Mr. Jade.” 12 The offices of Gryphon Development were located in a stylish stucco wanna-be-Spanish building on Greenview Shores across the street from the Polo Club’s west entrance. I parked in a visitor’s slot next to Bruce Seabright’s Jaguar. A poster-sized ad for Fairfields filled the front window of the office, Bruce Seabright’s photo in the lower right-hand corner. He had the kind of smile that said: I’m a big prick, let me sell you something overpriced. Apparently that worked for some people. The offices were professionally done to look expensive and inviting. Leather couches, mahogany tables. There were photographs of four men and three women on the wall, each with professional accolades etched in brass on the picture frames. Krystal Seabright was not among them. The receptionist looked a lot like Krystal Seabright. Too much gold jewelry and hair spray. I wondered if this was how Krystal and Bruce had met. The boss and the secretary. Trite but true too much of the time. “Elena Estes to see Mr. Seabright,” I said. “I have some questions about Fairfields.” “Wonderful location,” she said, giving me a saleswoman-in-training smile. “There are some spectacular barns going up in the development.” “Yes, I know. I’ve been past.” “The Hughes property,” she supplied with a look of near euphoria. “Is that to die for?” “I’m afraid so.” She buzzed Seabright. A moment later, the door on the far side of the reception area opened and Bruce Seabright stepped out, hanging on to the doorknob. He wore a crisp tan linen suit with a regimental striped tie. Very formal for south Florida, land of loud aloha shirts and deck shoes. “Ms. Estes?” “Yes. Thank you for seeing me.” I walked past him into his office and took a position on the opposite side of the room, my back to a mahogany credenza. “Have a seat,” he offered, going behind his desk. “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?” “No, thank you. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”

“I’m glad to say I am.” He smiled the same smile from the photo on the Fairfields poster. “Business is booming. Our little jewel of Wellington is being discovered. Property here is as hot as any in south Florida. And the land you’re asking about is a prime example.” “Actually, I’m not here to buy property, Mr. Seabright.” The smile faded to mild confusion. His features were small and sharp, like a ferret’s. “I don’t understand. You said you had questions about Fairfields.” “I do. I’m an investigator, Mr. Seabright. I’m looking into an incident at the equestrian center that involves a client of yours: Trey Hughes.” Seabright sat back in his chair, unhappy with this turn of events. “Of course I know Trey Hughes. It’s no secret he bought in Fairfields. But I certainly don’t go around talking about clients, Ms. Estes. I have my ethics.” “I’m not after personal information. I’m more curious about the development. When the land came up for sale. When Mr. Hughes bought his parcel.” “That’s a matter of public record,” Seabright said. “You could go to the county offices and look it up.” “I could, but I’m asking you.” Suspicion had overtaken confusion. “What’s this about? What ‘incident’ are you investigating?” “Mr. Hughes recently lost a very expensive horse. We have to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. You know.” “What does the property have to do with this horse?” “Routine background information. Was the owner in financial straits, et cetera. The property Mr. Hughes is developing was expensive, and the development of the property itself—” “Trey Hughes doesn’t need money,” Seabright said, offended by the suggestion. “Anyone will tell you he came into a large inheritance last year.” “Before or after he bought the Fairfields property?” “What difference does that make?” he asked irritably. “He’d been interested in the property for some time. He purchased last spring.” “After the death of his mother?” “I don’t like what you’re implying, Ms. Estes. And I’m not comfortable having this conversation.” He rose from his chair, a heartbeat from throwing me out. “Are you aware your stepdaughter has been working for Mr. Hughes’ trainer?” I asked. “Erin? What’s Erin got to do with this?” “I’d like an answer to that myself. But she seems to be missing.” Seabright’s level of agitation went up a notch. “What are you— Who exactly do you work for?” “That’s confidential information, Mr. Seabright. I have my ethics too,” I said. “Did you have anything to

do with Erin getting that job?” “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” “Are you aware no one has had any contact with Erin in nearly a week?” “Erin isn’t close to the family.” “Really? I was told she was quite close to your son.” Bruce Seabright turned burgundy and jabbed a forefinger at me. “I want your license number.” I raised the one eyebrow I could and crossed my arms over my chest, sitting back against the credenza. “Why are you so upset with me, Mr. Seabright? I would think a father would be more concerned about his daughter than his client.” “I’m not—” He caught himself and closed his mouth. “Her father?” I supplied. “You’re not her father, therefore you don’t have to be concerned about her?” “I’m not concerned about Erin because Erin is responsible for herself. She’s an adult.” “She’s eighteen.” “And no longer lives under my roof. She does as she pleases.” “That’s been a problem, hasn’t it? What pleases Erin doesn’t please you. Teenage girls . . .” I shook my head as if in commiseration. “Life is easier without her around, isn’t it?” I thought I could see his body vibrate with the anger he was trying to contain. He stared at me, burning my image into his brain so he could visualize and hate me when I’d gone. “Get out of my office,” he said, his voice tight and low. “And if I see you on this property again, I’m calling the police.” I moved away from the credenza, taking my time. “And tell them what, Mr. Seabright? That I should be arrested for caring more about what’s become of your stepdaughter than you do? I’m sure they’ll find that to be very curious.” Seabright yanked the door open and called out loudly to the receptionist: “Doris, call the Sheriff’s Office.” Doris stared, bug-eyed. “Ask for Detective Landry in Robbery/Homicide,” I suggested. “Give him my name. He’ll be happy to make an appearance.” Seabright narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if I was bluffing. I left the Gryphon offices at my own pace, got in Sean’s car, and drove away—just in case Bruce Seabright wasn’t. 13 My God, El, you look like one of Robert Palmer’s all-girl eighties’ bands.”

I had put the top down for the drive home, hoping the air would clear my head. Instead, the sun had baked my brain, and the wind had swept my hair up into a ’do from a fashion shoot for the tragically hip. I wanted a drink and a nap in the sun by the pool, but knew I would allow myself neither. Sean leaned down and kissed my cheek, then scolded me peevishly. “You stole my car.” “It matched my outfit.” I got out of the Mercedes and handed him the keys. He was in breeches and boots, and a tight black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off biceps the size of grapefruits. “Robert must be coming to teach you,” I said. “Why do you say that?” he asked, irritated. “The muscle shirt. Darling, you’re really so transparent.” “Well, meow, meow. Aren’t we catty today?” “A good beating will do that to me.” “I’m sure you deserved it. Invite me next time. I’d love to watch.” We walked together across the stable yard toward the guest house. Sean looked at me out of the corner of his eye and frowned. “Are you all right?” I gave the question undue weight and consideration, instead of tossing off the usual meaningless answer. What an odd moment to be struck by insight, I thought. But I stopped and acknowledged it within myself. “Yes,” I said. “I am.” As tangled and trying as this case was becoming, as unwilling a participant as I’d been, it felt good to use the old skills. It felt good to be necessary to something. “Good,” he said. “Now go powder your nose and transform yourself again, Cinderella. Your alter ego has company coming.” “Who?” “Van Zandt.” He spat the name out as if it were a bitter thing with a pit in it. “Don’t say I never sacrificed for you.” “My own mother wouldn’t do as much.” “You’d better believe that, honey. Your mother wouldn’t let that slimebag in the service entrance. You’ ve got twenty minutes to curtain.”

I took a shower and dressed in one of the outfits I had purchased at the show grounds: a jewel-red wraparound skirt made from an Indian sari, and a yellow linen blouse. An armload of bracelets, a pair of thick-soled sandals, and tortoiseshell shades, and I was Elle Stevens, Dilettante.

Van Zandt had just arrived as I cut through the stables to the parking area. He was dressed to impress in the uniform of the Palm Beach patriarch: pink shirt, tan slacks, blue blazer, his signature ascot at his throat. As he spotted me, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. My long-lost old friend. “Elle!” “Z.” I suffered through his cheek-kissing routine, bracing my hands against his chest so he couldn’t embrace me. “Three times,” he reminded me, stepping back. “Like the Dutch.” “Sounds to me like an excuse to grope,” I said with half a smile. “Clever lech. What other cultures do you steal from in order to cop a fee